


Happiness in the Accident

by KRyn



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, case-fic, season 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-31
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-12 07:50:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 23,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4471211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KRyn/pseuds/KRyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A blind artist with a secret of her own, and ties to a high profile murder case assigned to Detective Riley, becomes Harold's and John's next Number. </p><p>This is a case-fic in eleven parts, with a RINCH ending chapter, set after 'Guilty' in Season 4.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TimelessDreamer2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TimelessDreamer2/gifts), [talkingtothesky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/talkingtothesky/gifts).



> A grateful shout out of 'thanks' to TimelessDreamer2 who helped birth this story idea and offered amazing suggestions for some of the music referenced in the fic, and to talkingtothesky for her incredibly helpful feedback and cheer-leading as this story unfurled. 
> 
> I have a great deal of respect for the visually impaired. The use of blindness as a 'handicap' for the fictional character of Callie Edwards is in no way intended to demean or misrepresent the challenges faced by those trying to live with limited sight or without sight entirely, in a world that is so visually dominant. 
> 
> A full list of credits and acknowledgements can be found at the end of the final chapter. 
> 
> Rated Mature for an established M/M relationship, not explicit until the final chapter. Graphic violence appropriate to advance the plot line, but not excessive.

**********************************************************

_We scarcely know how much of our pleasure_  
_and interest in life comes to us through our eyes_  
_until we have to do without them; and part of that pleasure_  
i _s that the eyes can choose where to look._  
_But the ears can't choose where to listen._

**********************************************************

 

Callie Edwards wasn't a Number the morning she walked into the 8th precinct bullpen, white cane sweeping confidently in front of her as the Day Sergeant escorted her to John's desk, but Reese wasn't surprised to receive a text from Harold, ten minutes into his interview with her, reporting she had just leapfrogged to the top of the Machine's list. 

John set his phone on the conference room table and tapped his earpiece, opening the link to Finch before returning to their interrupted conversation. "Miss Edwards--" 

"Callie, please," she corrected him, her sightless gaze directed somewhere in the area of Reese's mouth. "I'm not really big on formality."

Her appearance reflected that assertion. Her dark brown hair was a cap of tight unruly curls. Very little--if any--makeup obscured an olive-tinted complexion, and her short, slightly stained fingernails boasted no polish. Her flowy, bohemian-style long dress was a sharp contrast to the women walking the streets of Manhattan in their sharply tailored power suits. 

"Besides," she shuddered gently, "whenever someone calls me 'Miss Edwards' in that tone of voice, it always makes me feel like I'm back standing in front of the principal's desk."

John's lip twitched. "Troublemaker?" 

She flashed him a grin. "Not from my perspective, although it's true I've been accused of having issues with authority figures."

 _"Miss Edwards' digital footprint is surprisingly small,"_ Harold commented. _"A Facebook page that she seldom updates. Minimal email activity. I have her cell phone records downloading now. Perhaps they'll be more enlightening."_

"Is that why you waited so long to come forward?" Reese questioned. He opened the app on his cell to clone their Number's phone, then turned on the digital tape recorder he had brought in to record her statement. "Councilwoman Adder's murder has been the lead story on every news broadcast for the past three days."

Her expression abruptly shifted from amusement to regret. "No. If I'd realized..." She shook her head. "I tend to shut out the world when I'm buried up to my elbows in work." She rubbed one hand along the outside of her forearm. The movement dislodged tiny flecks of what looked like pale gray dirt onto the wooden table. 

_"She has both a light manufacturing and vendor's permit from the City. Apparently she makes and sells some type of ceramics."_

"You're an artist?"

She shrugged. "I make pots. It pays the bills. I didn't know Marie had died, until I surfaced late last night after finishing a project. When I heard the news, it occurred to me that the conversation I'd overheard might be helpful to your investigation."

"You knew the Councilwoman personally?" Reese prodded.

"My studio is in the same building as my apartment. The firing technique I use requires a special permit. Marie helped me wind through the red tape to secure it. I offered her one of my pots as a 'thank you'. She said she couldn't accept it without paying for it, so we struck a deal. We met for coffee once or twice a week, and she paid for my order each time."

Callie's fingers absently tapped the side of the glass of water Reese had retrieved for her. "Marie is... _was_ very 'hands-on'. Extremely committed to the people she'd been elected to represent. She had a habit of walking the streets at different times of the day and holding 'office hours' at various cafes in the neighborhood. No appointment necessary. If you wanted to talk to her about something, you just stopped her on the street or plunked yourself down at her table. It didn't matter whether you were one of the well-heeled Millennials who have been moving into the neighborhood, a business owner, or one of the homeless. She was a good listener...and a good friend."

Her observations meshed with what Reese had already discovered. Councilwoman Marie Adder had been a respected public servant. A well-known face on the streets of Alphabet City, the hip bohemian enclave tucked within the East Village. Even Adder's political opponents found few reasons to throw barbs. She had worked hard for her constituents, and had been a staunch advocate for the homeless who still populated the quickly evolving, shabby-chic neighborhoods in her district. 

Adder's death, supposedly at the hands of one of the homeless she had championed, had shocked the City. Moreno had dumped the high-profile case on Reese and Fusco. They'd been under strict orders to 'close it and close it fast', but John had been stubbornly resistant to the assertion that her murderer was some 'unstable, unwashed' street person, despite the damning evidence found at the crime scene. 

Adder had been stabbed multiple times with a hand-made shiv, the bloodied blade found near her body. From his own time on the streets, Reese knew many of the homeless carried some kind of easily pocketable weapon, often a crude knife, but usually only for self-defense. 

The back alley where Adder's body had been discovered had contained a crudely erected shelter of flattened cardboard boxes, a thread-bare blanket, a trash bag containing a dozen scavenged aluminum cans, and several empty rot-gut liquor bottles. All credible evidence that someone had been using the alley as a make-shift home. 

Credible unless you had John's background. He had no doubt the alley had been someone's nightly shelter, but he wasn't buying one of the City's 'invisible' residents as the murderer. Of the eleven stab wounds the Coroner's report listed, only two had been fatal and those had caused almost immediate exsanguination--the one that had severed her femoral artery, and the one that had sliced the aorta. The latter was an extremely difficult wound to inflict given its protected location within the body.

Having been trained precisely in _how_ to deliver that type of killing blow, Reese was convinced the Councilwoman's death hadn't been the tragic result of an unexpected encounter, as the media was speculating. Instead of scouring the homeless shelters looking for some unfortunate person down on their luck, John was looking for a professional killer. Someone with a level of training and skill that matched, or came close to matching his own.

"You didn't see--" John corrected himself immediately, "didn't _witness_ the actual murder."

Edwards didn't seem to be bothered by his slip. "No. The news reports said she died Tuesday. I started working on a new project Monday morning, and didn't come up for air until yesterday. The conversation I told you I heard occurred late Sunday night."

"Walk me through it."

Callie took a sip of water and set the glass down carefully. "It was just before midnight. I had taken several bags of trash out to the dumpster behind my building. I was heading back inside when I heard two people arguing. A man and a woman. I didn't recognize the man's voice, but I'd know Marie's anywhere. Their conversation sounded...well, private. And a bit heated. I didn't want to intrude, so I stopped at the corner of the building and waited for them to finish."

 _"Miss Edwards doesn't have a driver's license, for obvious reasons, but her New York State ID lists her home address as 211 East 5th Street,"_ Harold interjected. _"The buildings in the area are primarily old manufacturing facilities--renovated and converted to apartments, condos, small businesses and restaurants."_

"How far away from them were you?"

"It's twenty-three steps from the corner of the building to the main entryway," she answered with the confidence and accuracy of someone who was extremely conscious of the details of her environment. There was also a hint of steel in her tone, a clear warning not to discount what she had to say, just because she was blind. "The area's pretty quiet at that time of night. They were stationary, on the sidewalk, very close to the front door. Their voices carried clearly."

"You said they were arguing?"

She nodded. "I just caught the end of their conversation." Her eyes closed and she started speaking softly, but precisely. _"'...gonna be ruined if this deal doesn't go though. I thought you were on board with this.'''_

Edwards' voice shifted from a lower pitch to a higher tone, and Reese realized she was modulating her voice in mimicry of the voices she had heard. 

_"'I was until you altered your proposal. I'm not about to jeopardize the residents living in that neighborhood so you can make another fortune.' ... 'I need your vote.'...'Then go back to your original vision--' ...'I can't. I'm already in too deep.' ... 'I'm sorry, but you shouldn't have moved ahead before the Council voted.'...'You don't change your vote, you're going to regret it.'"_

Edwards opened her eyes. "That was all they said before they parted. When I heard footsteps, I moved back into the shelter of the building. The man walked past where I was standing. I waited until I couldn't hear him anymore before I stepped out to the sidewalk. Marie must have headed in the opposite direction, because I didn't sense anyone out front when I got the to the door."

John leaned forward, eyeing her worriedly. "Do you think he saw you?" 

Her eyes shifted left and right, as though she were searching memories. She shook her head slowly. "I don't think so. His footsteps were hard and fast. Angry, like his voice. I don't remember any hesitation."

"And you never heard a name."

"No. I called Marie after I got back to my apartment. I was worried about her, since the threat seemed so clear, but she pretty much blew off my concerns. Said she dealt with people like 'him' all the time. That 'he'd' cool down. I wasn't surprised when she didn't refer to the man by name. Marie was always careful about keeping Council business confidential." 

_"We may have a way to determine his identity, Mr. Reese. A Council meeting was scheduled for the day following Ms. Adder's murder. They've post-poned it out of deference to her untimely death, but there were several items on the original agenda that will impact Ms. Adder's constituents. One of those items was a vote to award a contract worth close to a billion dollars to redevelop several blocks in her District. According to the minutes of the meetings I've reviewed, Councilwoman Adder had been adamant that she would only vote in favor of a plan that included keeping and updating the current non-profit homeless shelter situated in that area. Because the project was in her District, she held the swing vote."_

Reese quickly connected the dots. A billion dollar contract conditional on a 'yea' or 'nay' vote was definitely a motive for murder. Trading on the suspicions of the public toward the homeless by making it appear that one of them was responsible for Adder's death was a smart move. Not only did the uproar divert attention from the real culprit, it could ultimately result in the removal of the requirement to keep the shelter revamp in the proposal. Icing on the cake, and more money in the pocket of the developer who won the vote. 

"I should have pushed harder," Edwards murmured sadly. "Maybe she'd still be alive."

John understood that kind of remorse. He reached across the table and gently laid a hand on hers. She flinched slightly at the unexpected contact, but didn't pull away. 

"Would you recognize the man's voice if you heard it again?"

There was no hesitation in her reply. "Yes." 

"And you're willing to testify to what you heard?"

He was watching for her reaction. She twitched, just enough to reveal her uneasiness, not enough to make him suspicious. Her answer was another definitive, "Yes."

"Good." He switched off the recorder, and sent a terse email to Fusco. "I've got an idea on how to nail the person who killed your friend, and those bionic ears of yours will be a big help. If you're game."

Her expression was unreadable for a moment, and he wondered if he had overstepped with his playful reference to her exceptional hearing--Harold's offended grumble intimated that the older man thought he had--but John had the feeling that Edwards didn't like to be coddled, especially where her handicap was concerned. He was proven right when she suddenly smiled broadly.

"A 70s television reference? Careful Detective, you're dating yourself." 

He bit back a laugh, squeezed her hand and rose to his feet. "I'll take that as a 'yes'. I need a few minutes to get the ball rolling. Do you need to call anyone? Touch base with your ride?"

She reached out to pull the water glass close, and wrapped her fingers around it. "If that's your subtle way of asking if anyone knows I'm here, or if I've told anyone else what I overheard, the answer is 'no'." She tilted her head back a bit. "I'm blind, Detective. Not foolish. I understand what's at stake."

"That makes things easier for both of us," he responded. 

There was a sharp rap on the conference room door. Fusco slipped in and shut in behind him.

"Callie, this is my partner, Detective Fusco," John quickly introduced them. "Lionel, meet Callie Edwards."

"Hey, how you doin'?" Lionel greeted her. 

Reese handed Fusco the tape recorder. "She was a friend of Councilwoman Adder. Had some thoughts on her death."

Lionel's eyes narrowed, his gaze flicking between the recorder and their witness. "Sorry for your loss," he murmured, giving John a sharp nod, an indication he understood the implications of both the tape and her presence. 

"Thank you," she answered softly. 

"Lionel's going to keep you company while I talk to my Captain," Reese explained. "I'll be back in a few minutes." He opened the door, pausing before he slipped through. "And Callie? Nothing's going to happen to you. Not on our watch," he promised solemnly. 

She cocked her head to the side slightly, as though considering the sincerity of his vow, and finally nodded.

Reese stepped out into the corridor. "What have you got on our girl, Harold?" he murmured _sotto voce,_ heading toward the bullpen. 

_"Not as much as I would like. Hacking secure servers isn't the expeditious process it once was,"_ Finch groused. _"I'm still digging into her background, but I have some current information. Full name: Callie Istalyn Edwards. Thirty-seven year's of age. Resident of New York City for the past six years. Property tax records indicate she owns the entire building at the address I gave you earlier."_

"Guess 'making pots' is a good living," Reese noted, reaching his desk. He tapped out the commands to close the open files on his computer, and stuffed the pertinent sheets from the Adder's case file into his pocket. 

_"I haven't been able to perform an in-depth review her bank accounts or tax statements as of yet, but your observation has merit, Mr. Reese. It would appear Miss Edwards has more than a modest income. She holds a US Passport and has traveled rather extensively to Europe and the far East. Japan in particular...ah, that's interesting..."_

John resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Finch's affinity for details and obscure facts often led them down interesting paths, but now wasn't the time. "Harold."

_"Hmmm....Oh. Her passport. Miss Edwards has renewed it faithfully, so a new application wasn't necessary. The original documentation dated fifteen years ago references a Wisconsin Driver's license."_

Reese paused mid-reach into his desk drawer. "So she hasn't always been blind."

_"Apparently not. I also found an old application for a student work permit tied to the original passport file, which was approved by the Japanese government. She spent almost eight years living in Kyoto, Japan. From what I can tell, she left there rather abruptly to return to the States. The reason for that, where precisely she went, and what she was doing until she resurfaced in New York isn't clear. We're assuming her peripheral involvement in Councilwoman Adder's death is the reason we received her Number. Could it be old trouble from her time in Japan coming back to haunt her, instead?"_

"I'd lay odds we're on the right track." John pulled out two extra magazines, one for his Sig-Sauer and one for his department issued service weapon before sliding the desk drawer shut. "Focus on the developers bidding for that contract in Adder's District."

" _According to the Council records, thirty-one firms submitted proposals. Five made the final cut. Most were apparently unhappy with Ms. Adder's requirement in regard to the shelter, as it added significant cost to the proposal. Several also argued that the presence of the shelter would negatively impact the type of clients they hoped to attract once the development was finished. All five were asked to make revisions in their original submissions to meet various zoning restrictions and materials standards. I'll vet them and see which developer stands to either lose or gain the most from the awarding of the contract."_

"Send whatever you find to my phone. Fusco and I can cover those five firms pretty quickly. Callie can listen in while we interview the owners."

_"John, are you certain we should involve Miss Edwards so intimately in this? I agree she will ultimately make an exceptional witness against whomever killed the Councilwoman, but our primary goal is to keep her alive."_

"Adder was killed by a pro. Probably hired by one of those five developers. We identify them and take them out of the equation, we remove the threat to her life. It has to happen fast, before the press gets wind of a new slant on the investigation."

 _"I'm afraid the barn door's already closed on that option,"_ Harold replied grimly. _"One of the reporters for the_ Times _just posted a 'breaking news' update to his Twitter account, suggesting an 'unusual' witness has come forward in the Councilwoman's murder."_

Reese stifled a curse. A crowd of reporters had been hanging around the station since news of Adder's murder broke. Callie's arrival, and the speed with which she had been escorted past the front desk, had probably been noted by more than just one salivating news-hound. 

"I'll get Moreno to corral the vultures and buy us some time." John plucked his long black coat from the rack and shrugged into it. "I'll slip Callie out the back. Get her set up somewhere safe. We'll be in touch."


	2. Chapter 2

*******************************************************

_I am a forest, and a night of dark trees:_   
_but he who is not afraid of my darkness,_   
_will find banks full of roses under my cypresses._

*******************************************************

 

_"How are you faring with Miss Edwards?"_

Reese glanced at the bedroom door Callie had just disappeared behind, the sharp sound of the panel closing with more force than necessary reverberating within the high-ceilinged apartment. 

"She's nearly as prickly about her privacy and independence as you are, Harold. Just as stubborn, too. She refused to go anywhere but home."

Her rejection of his original plans to install her at their safe house had taken the form of a firm, silent protest, standing arms crossed outside the vehicle behind the precinct, adamantly refusing to get into the car until John agreed to their destination. 

_"I'm not surprised. Miss Edwards seems to have adapted extremely well to the loss of her vision due to the accident, but I would expect a familiar environment would provide a greater sense of security, given the current situation."_

John's gaze swept the large main room of the apartment. From a tactical standpoint, he would have preferred a few interior walls or columns, but the open floor plan did offer clear lines of sight, and quick egress to the exits. 

He could also appreciate that it was well suited to someone who was blind. The hardwood floors were clear of throw rugs, with no descending steps or risers to trip the unwary. The main seating area was a grouping of comfortable chairs, a sofa and low square coffee table in the center of the room, the few other pieces of furniture, including a sleek computer desk supporting a substantial desktop system, tucked neatly against the walls. An arched brick opening led to a small galley-style kitchen with a breakfast bar and high stools. 

Reese could understand why Callie had been determined to hole up inside the apartment's sturdy walls. She probably knew every square inch of the space intimately. "You mentioned an accident," he prompted, starting a circuit of the room. 

_"Miss Edwards was an art student doing a hands-on study of traditional ceramic techniques during the eight years she lived in Japan. She was injured while removing fired pieces from a super-heated kiln. The accident left her with irreparable damage to the optic nerves in both eyes, and was the reason for her sudden return home."_

"I knew a guy in the Service that got blinded by a IED. He never got back into the world. Callie seems to have come through it pretty well."

_"Indeed. Miss Edwards rejoined 'sighted' society remarkably quickly. She spent several months under a doctor's care in Northern Wisconsin, where her parents still live, before enrolling in a year-long program at the Perkins School for the Blind in Watertown, Massachusetts. The permit Councilwoman Adder helped her acquire is dated about six months after she relocated to New York."_

John pulled back a set of metal shutters that covered the inside of one of windows, nodding in approval at their sturdiness. "Well, as safe houses go, the apartment's not bad, other than its location on the first floor. Thick solid brick walls, heavy metal fire doors with imbedded deadbolts...looks like the building might have been a foundry at one point."

Careful not to touch the window casing, Reese craned his neck and studied a small device mounted almost flush with the building's brick exterior. "Whoever set up her security system knew what they were doing. Most likely point of entry would be the windows, but it looks like they're wired in, and she's got motion detectors on the approaches." 

_"Undoubtedly designed to trigger a variety of aural alarms. Her doorbell and phone are probably similarly keyed to alert her to a visitor or incoming call."_

John looked up, noting the placement of small speakers mounted on the walls in several locations. 

Outside of the door which led to Callie's bedroom there was only one other door in the apartment, which he assumed led to her studio. It was another metal fire door, but with a simple lock instead of a deadbolt. As soon as he opened the panel, he inhaled the nose-wrinkling smells of smoke, ash, and mud. He stepped inside, the sunlight streaming through clerestory windows faintly illuminating an almost cavernous high-ceilinged room. A flick of the light switch activated large suspended industrial lights, and ceiling fans that produced a gentle wash of breeze.

"She's got a good-sized studio setup here, Finch."

Like the apartment, the space was designed for accessibility and ease of workflow. Heavy metal shelves lined the wall to his left, supporting bags and containers of various sizes. A large emergency medical kit was mounted on the wall near a deep double sink. Several neatly coiled hoses hung on hooks beside it. Another set of shelving contained cleaning supplies and chemicals. Six-foot waist-height tables formed a u-shaped workspace around two mud-splattered potter's wheels. Tall wooden self-standing shelves held several dozen pieces of pottery that were obviously works in progress; the sensuously curved shapes of the vessels intriguing, despite their flat gray color. Numerous small closed containers, brushes, sharp-pointed and flat-bladed tools were neatly arrayed on another set of tables set up similarly to the first. 

A floor to ceiling curtain divided off the rest of the space. Reese walked over to it and pushed one end aside, surprised by its weight and the slick silver coating on the reverse side. A glance at the space it had hidden revealed the area where the pottery was fired. There were several boxy units that he presumed were kilns, and an assortment of safety gear, insulated gloves, and long-handled tongs. Another set of standing shelves, empty of anything at the moment, divided off what looked like another type of finishing area: five 30 gallon metal drums placed in a circle around a wide, deep water bath. The concrete floor had been swept, but a slippery gray residue remained. 

Short lengths of wood, bags of sawdust, and stacks of newspapers were piled a safe distance away from the kilns, lined up against the wall next to the only other door Reese had seen. The keypad mounted on the wall next to the metal panel matched the one he had noted next to the front door. John did a quick mental calculation, coming to the conclusion the door led out onto the alley to the right of the building. 

He ducked back around the curtain and headed toward the door to the apartment. "Did you find anything in Callie's business records about employees? Anyone we need to warn off for a few days?"

_"I presume she has at least one assistant to handle the more complex aspects of her craft."_

John almost hesitated mid-stride. "Presume?"

_"I've not yet had the opportunity to delve into the business aspects of her life."_ Harold's frustration practically hissed across the line. 

"I thought multi-tasking was your specialty, Finch," he teased gently.

_"I thought your preference was that I focus on the developers you wish to interrogate, Mr. Reese,"_ Finch answered acerbically.

"Point taken," John conceded quickly. Black humor and sardonic remarks were hallmarks of their relationship, never taken too seriously, but he was careful not to let the banter go too far, especially where their mission was concerned. 

With Shaw MIA, and Root caught between grieving her absence and the Machine's mysterious missions, that left the two of them--with Fusco's assistance as available--to work the Numbers. They hadn't been stretched this thin since they'd started. Reese knew it worried Harold that any delay might one day cost them a life. 

In the few hours since Edwards' Number had popped up, Harold had probably unearthed more information than a team of researchers could have, but sorting through it would take time. Before Samaritan, Finch would have gone directly to the source, plucking out only the data that he needed. Now he had to take a much more circuitous route, and pull more information than he wanted, in order to hide his tracks. The need to trade expediency for caution chafed, but it was necessary. Harold was as careful as they came, concealing every venture into the depths of the Web with layers of false IP addresses and red herring trails, but each time he hacked a system there was always a possibility he could attract attention that would lead Samaritan to their door. 

"What _did_ you find on the developers?"

_"The records are still trickling in, but at first glance, I can tell you that if I were still in insurance, I would be leery about writing a 'risk' policy for most of them without some serious indemnity clauses. One appears to have a burgeoning dispute with the local plumbers union, which could affect completion on a separate development already underway in Manhattan. All five are overextended, some farther behind in loan repayments than others. Not a surprise in the current economy, but worth looking into further. In the meantime, I've identified the individuals at each firm you're going to want to interview. I sent you the list and basic background via text a few moments ago."_

Reese's mesh network cell vibrated. "Just got it. I'll forward it to Fusco. If he can shake loose from the reporters who've been dogging our heels, he can hit some of them." 

A small rough textured doormat near the studio entrance was liberally streaked with gray ash. John checked the soles of his shoes and found them coated with the same substance. He scuffed his shoes across the mat to remove the worst of it, and exited, closing the door with a quiet snick. 

With their Number still in her bedroom, and as satisfied as he was going to get with the security aspects, Reese took another look around, getting a feel for the personality of the apartment's owner. 

The minimalist decor projected an impression of oriental simplicity, a reflection of the years Edwards had spent living in Japan. Sprouting stalks of bamboo stood in tall glass vases on a stand near one of the windows. A silky-looking throw embroidered with a wandering pattern of leaves lay over the arm of a chair. Texture took precedence over visuals, he noted as he wandered the room. The pillows on the nubby fabric covered couch were plump and soft to the touch. Rough brick walls contrasted with satin smooth wooden shelving. 

A selection of pottery graced one set of shelves. There were a few larger pieces, similar to the ones he'd seen on the racks in the studio, but these were obviously finished, with deep pools of color ranging from matte purple to bright copper swirling across the curved surfaces. Most were small bowls, closer in size to a cup, but without a handle. The colors were muted, some flat black with swaths of iridescence, others in warmer hues of browns and reds. Less striking at first glance than the larger pots, there was something seductively alluring about the smaller pieces that made him want to pick them up and cradle them in his hands. 

John moved on to another set of shelves, this one filled with record albums encased in protective plastic. 

"You'll like this girl, Harold. She collects vinyl." He pulled one album out a few inches. Attached to the cover was a strip of plastic about the size of a standard BandAid. There had been similar labels attached to the containers in the studio. He smoothed his thumb over it, feeling the embossed pattern of dots. A quick check of another album revealed the same braille labeling. He grinned when he realized he was holding a copy of _'Il Trovatore',_ by Verdi. "Shares your taste in music, too." The next album he checked was a copy of AC/DC's _'Ballbreaker'._ "For the most part." He quickly slid that album back into it's slot.

_"If that enticement is designed to lure me into joining you, Mr. Reese, it's wasted effort,"_ Harold said dryly. _"I anticipated your request. I should be there within fifteen minutes."_

John nodded, pleased with the news. "See you shortly, Harold."

Their Number's irritated voice abruptly altered his state of mind. 

"Who's Harold?"


	3. Chapter 3

***************************************************************************************

_Sometimes, reaching out and taking someone's hand is the beginning of a journey._  
_At other times, it is allowing another to take yours._

**************************************************************************************** 

 

Reese spun on his heel to find Callie standing outside her bedroom door. She'd traded the long dress for a loose sleeveless shirt and a pair of calf-length leggings. She hadn't bothered to replace the shoes she had taken off at the front door. Her body language didn't quite reflect the irritation in her tone; the arms crossed over her chest projecting insecurity instead of the defiance he'd seen earlier.

"Didn't your parents teach you it was rude to eavesdrop?" he rasped, more irked with himself for dropping his guard, than with her. 

"As a matter of fact they did, Detective. They also taught me it was impolite to invite a guest to the party without checking with the hostess first."

She had him there. "Harold's a friend. Sort of a silent partner."

"Another cop?"

"More like an expert researcher. He's good with computers."

"A hacker." Her tone was disdainful. 

"Not the kind that causes mischief...not without cause," he offered lightly. "Think of him as an artist with technology, if it helps. He's digging into the backgrounds of the developers who bid on the project the Council was due to vote on, trying to narrow down who you might have overheard threatening your friend. He'll take a look at your security system, too. Make sure there aren't any holes that need plugging."

"You trust him?"

There was no hesitation in his firm reply. "Yes." He softened his tone. "I promised to keep you safe, Callie. I wouldn't bring anyone else into this, if I thought it would endanger you."

Her arms slowly dropped to her sides. She took a visibly deep breath, squared her shoulders, and acquiesced with a small nod. She moved finally, bare feet lightly skimming the floor as she headed to the kitchen. She opened a cupboard and pulled out a stack of white paper filters. "Is it cliche to assume coffee's your beverage of choice, Detective?" 

He could have offered a snarky reply, but she was obviously striving to regain her composure, so he simply answered, "Coffee's fine."

John's admiration for her ability to cope with her handicap grew as he watched her move efficiently in the narrow space, reaching unerringly for a can of coffee, tugging the coffee maker off of a low shelf, filling the water reservoir and plugging the unit into the wall switch without a fumble. 

"To avoid any more surprises, maybe it's time you told me the rest of your plan," she prodded.

While the coffee burbled its way into the carafe, Reese gave her a quick rundown. He and Lionel would interview the five developers, explaining their visits as just a standard part of the investigation into the Councilwoman's background. 

"Harold will set it up so you can listen in on our conversations. Once we've identified who you overheard, then we'll figure out if they killed your friend, or hired someone else to do it." 

"So he'll be--" A tinkling chime emanating from the speakers mounted around the main room interrupted her. "Someone's at the front door," she explained, taking a step in that direction. 

John halted her with a light touch to her arm. "I'll get it." He reached back for his Sig, half-drawing it from the holster as he strode to the door. After a quick look through the security peephole, he opened the door, hand dropping from his pistol only when Finch, with Bear crowding his heels, stood safely inside.

Reese brushed a hand against Harold's sleeve in silent greeting then turned to their Number. 

"Callie, meet Harold."

One eyebrow twitched upward a fraction, and her blank gaze shifted slightly to the left, toward where Finch was standing. 

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Edwards," Harold said. "I hope you'll forgive the intrusion. John thought I could be of some assistance." 

Her eyebrow lifted further, and a smile curved the corner of her mouth. "Ah. _That's_ how it is." 

Reese glanced at his partner who appeared as perplexed by the comment as he was. Before he could frame a question, Callie stepped forward, hand extended toward Finch. Bear chose that moment to move to Harold's side, nails clicking on the wood floor, a soft whine announcing his eagerness to join in the introductions. 

She stopped abruptly, pulling her hand back, sightless eyes widening. "You...you brought a dog with you."

Harold flicked a questioning glance at John. 

"His name's Bear," Reese interjected quickly. "A Belgian Malinois. Well behaved and trained to sense trouble before it gets within reach."

"I apologize for not checking with you first, Miss Edwards," Harold added quickly. "If you'd prefer, I can return him to my car."

"No...it's..." She dragged a hand through her hair, the nervous gesture ruffling the unruly curls further. "It's fine. The more the merrier, I guess." She drew a shaky breath, then settled, offering her hand to Harold once more. "Welcome, _friend_ Harold."

It was Finch's turn to send a bemused glance John's way as he handed him Bear's leash. Harold closed the distance and took her hand gently, eyes widening a little as she shook his hand. As John could attest, their Number had a surprisingly firm grip; strong hands a byproduct of her profession. 

"I understand you're here to improve my security system," she said, releasing Harold's hand. "Among other things."

"I've tweaked a few in my time," Finch offered blandly. 

"Well, it's voice activated. As long as you don't screw around with that, have at it." She swept an arm in the direction of her system. "There's a standard keyboard, as well as a braille one."

"Thank you, but I brought my own laptop." Harold patted the computer bag hanging over his shoulder. 

She nodded. "Don't like working with someone else's tools. I get that. I feel the same way." She turned and took a couple steps toward the kitchen, then hesitated, half-turning back toward them. "I just started some coffee, but I'm betting you'd prefer tea, Harold." She cocked her head a little to the side. "A green?"

Finch's startled expression could only be described as comical, but his voice held only its normal polite tones when he accepted her offer. "That would be most appreciated."

While Callie busied herself in the kitchen and Finch got his laptop set up on the coffee table in the main seating area, John unclipped Bear's lead and let him roam the apartment. The Malinois made a thorough circuit of the room, nose to the floor, tracing scent paths. He spent the longest time at the door to the studio, hackles rising slightly along his back, presumably due to the lingering smell of smoke from the studio. Reese recalled him and settled him inside the front door.

"John, your coffee's ready," Callie called out. 

"What happened to put us on a first name basis?" he teased gently, moving to the kitchen to take the mug from her outstretched hand. 

"Part apology for my earlier stubbornness. Plus, you're in my home. Only friends are allowed here. And friends of friends. 'Not a big fan of formality', remember?"

"I remember."

She lifted a wooden tray bearing a teapot and two small handcrafted bowls off the counter. John stepped out of her way and followed her to the couch where Harold was seated, frowning at his laptop screen. Finch glanced up as she set the tray on the coffee table opposite him, his disconcerted expression shifting to one of curious appreciation. Callie knelt and gave the teapot a gentle swirl before pouring the steaming contents into one of the bowls. She picked up the bowl with two hands and turned it 180 degrees. She murmured something John didn't quite catch and offered the bowl to Harold. 

He took it with a nod and a quiet, _"Domo"._ A delighted smile curved his lips at the first sip. _"Sumimasen."_

Callie waved a hand past her face, as though brushing off the compliment, but she looked pleased as she poured tea into the second bowl for herself and settled cross-legged on the floor.

Harold turned the bowl in his hands, admiration shifting to puzzlement as he studied the green and black crazed vessel. His eyes widened abruptly. "Of course... _Callie Istalyn_ Edwards. I should have realized." He stared at their Number, his expression slightly awestruck. "You're Calista." 

Edwards grimaced slightly. "I prefer Callie."

"THE Calista."

She sighed and nodded.

John's gaze flicked between the two of them curiously.

Their Number looked resigned. Harold on the other hand...a myriad of expressions flashed in his eyes, too fast for Reese to identify.

"If I'm not mistaken, the last I heard, you were living in the South of France." The somber undertone to his partner's voice whispered of compassion and a shared understanding. 

"I must really be out of the loop then," she responded dryly. "The last rumor I was aware of had me working out of a hut in South America." She shrugged. "The location of my studio isn't a secret. Not intentionally. It's just that I prefer work to partying, and my privacy to the invasion of it."

John shot an, 'I told you, you'd like her,' glance at his partner, but Harold's concerned gaze was locked on their Number.

"Miss Edwards' description of her art as 'making pots' falls rather short of the mark, John," Finch explained. "Although she's a bit of a mystery in the art world, Calista's work is in high demand. I believe the Museum of Modern Art has a half dozen of her raku pottery pieces currently on display."

"Five," she corrected him absently. "Although it will be six, once I finish their new commission."

"Pays the bills, huh?" John rasped. 

"It's not about the money," she said quietly. 

The silence that followed her pronouncement held that prickly discomfort of reluctantly revealed secrets. John took a sip of his coffee and perched on the arm of one of the chairs. "Find any glitches in the security system, Harold?" he asked, getting them down to the business at hand.

"Just one." Finch carefully set the bowl on the table. "The voice activation protocols Miss Edwards mentioned aren't keyed to a specific voice."

"It has that capability," Callie explained, "but it's more trouble than it's worth."

"Anyone speaking the correct numeric code can control the security system," Harold cautioned. 

"I like it the way it is. If I'm working, I can't just drop everything to answer the door," she countered stubbornly. "My agent, and the two graduate students from the University who come in to help fire the pots and manage deliveries for me, need to be able to get in and out."

"Suggestions?" Reese asked his partner tersely.

"It would be safer to remove the function all together and change the entry code."

"Hey--"

"Do it," John ordered, brusquely cutting off her objection. "When are you expecting those grad students?"

"Day after tomorrow," Callie muttered crossly.

"Your agent?"

"She'd call first, but I don't expect to hear from her 'til next week."

"Good. Nobody in or out, until this is over."

"It's for your own safety, Miss Edwards," Harold interjected gently. "I'll reset everything to your satisfaction as soon as the individual responsible for Councilwoman Adder's death is in jail."

The scowl on her face was mutinous, but she finally nodded grudgingly. "Fine. Let's just get on with this so I can have my life back."

Reese shot Harold a sympathetic glance as he set his mug on the table and stood.

"Atrium Developments would be a good place to start," Harold suggested, rising to his feet to accompany John to the door. "Their financial picture is the bleakest at the moment. The CEO, Robert Sims, has trouble on the personal side of the ledger as well. His wife is suing him for divorce."

"I'll be in touch." Reese glanced back at their Number, and tapped his ear. "Stay sharp and keep an eye on her."

Harold nodded and slid an earpiece out of his suit coat pocket. He seated it in his ear and touched John's arm briefly before stepping back. Reese paused to murmur a command to the Malinois, then slipped outside.


	4. Chapter 4

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_At the temple there is a poem called "Loss" carved into the stone._   
_It has three words, but the poet has scratched them out._   
_You cannot read loss, only feel it._

**************************************************************************

 

Harold shot the deadbolt and turned to study their Number, still seated on the floor, half-curled over her tea bowl--and practically vibrating with anger and resentment. He understood her frustration all too well. Once you'd climbed out of the pit of despair and loss, and reclaimed your life, ceding control to someone else was nearly impossible. It took a leap of faith. 

Or in his case...love. 

With a soft sigh, he limped back over to the couch and settled in front of his laptop. A few new lines of code were all it took to cancel the voice recognition function; a few more and he was ready to reset the passcode. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, loath to make an arbitrary decision. 

"Miss Edwards?"

"Use my mother's birthday," she answered tightly. "I'm sure you've already hacked your way into all the pertinent details of my life."

She shoved to her feet before he could respond, turned and stalked across the room, bare feet thumping hard on the wood floor. She flung open a door near the kitchen and disappeared into the darkness that lay beyond. Bear immediately rose and headed to the open doorway, Harold only a few steps behind him. Man and dog both hesitated on the threshold, warned off by angry muttered curses and an alarmingly loud 'thudding' sound. 

As Harold's vision adjusted to the shadowy interior, he could make out their Number standing at a set of metal tables. Edwards raised both hands as high as her head and then slammed down whatever she was holding onto the table. The 'thud-splat' was as loud as a gunshot. Harold winced at the force of it. She reached down, fingers clawing at what he finally realized was clay, gathered it up into a ball and slammed it down again. 

Harold dropped a hand to Bear's head and retreated. He sent the Malinois back to his guard position and returned to the couch, letting their Number have the space and solitude she needed. He set the new passcode, refreshed his tea, which had gone cold, and paged through more of the information he had downloaded on the developers. He quickly pulled together a short file on Atrium Developments and sent it to John.

The sounds coming from the studio slowly transitioned from erratic pulses of violence, to the smooth rhythm of an artist at her craft. Satisfied that she was working out her frustration by immersing herself in something familiar, he did the same, focusing on the files in front of him, looking for the needle in the haystack that would give Reese the lead he needed. 

The rustle of fabric broke his concentration. He looked up to see their Number settling to the floor in the space between the two chairs across from him, draping a heavy canvas drop cloth over her legs. Once it was arranged to her satisfaction, she positioned a short spindled platform in front of her. The flat, round top plate spun like a turntable when she flicked her fingers against the edge. She dropped a lump of grayish clay onto it and immediately began to mold it, fingers moving with certainty despite not being able to see the shape she was forming.

As fascinated as he was with what she was doing, a quick glance was all it took to see she still needed time to regroup. Harold dug a cable out of his bag, attached one end to his laptop, and connected the other end of the USB to his phone. After double-checking that the programs he would need to record and broadcast the audio files John would transmit for their Number's review were up and running, he picked up his tea again and sat back, watching her work.

Under her deft touch, the lump of clay was quickly transforming into a bowl-like shape, growing taller and wider simultaneously. As she manipulated the malleable substance on the slowly spinning platform, she seemed to relax, the angry hunch of her shoulders lessening, the stiffness in her spine easing. 

Her voice was whisper-thin when she finally spoke. "What gave me away? It wasn't just my name you recognized."

Harold looked down at the bowl cradled in his hands. The memories of holding a similar vessel were bittersweet. "Someone...special took me to a showing of Calista's work several years ago," he said quietly. "A small gallery in Soho. The 'Art Space', if I remember correctly."

"Jandeen Siver's place," she murmured with a nod. "That would have been one of my early exhibitions after I moved to New York. I only had a few pieces on display."

"Among those was a set of Japanese-inspired raku tea bowls, shaped and glazed similarly to this one," he murmured. He traced his thumb over a crackled matte black line, recalling the evenings he and Grace had spent together, cuddled on the sofa in front of a roaring fire, sipping from those bowls as he read and she sketched. "We enjoyed them very much."

Her head popped up, her fingers tightening on the clay and nearly ruining the blossoming shape. " _You_ bought them?" 

He huffed a soft laugh. "At a steal in comparison to what I presume they are selling for now."

"Wait. You said 'enjoyed'. Past tense." 

"Yes." He didn't bother to hide the regret that colored his tone. 

For a moment it seemed she was going to pursue a more detailed answer, but she turned her attention to reshaping the clay in her hands instead. 

His cell vibrating on the table startled both of them. The display indicated an incoming call from Reese. Harold tapped his earpiece. 

_"You with me, Finch?"_

"You'll be on speaker in a moment, John," Harold replied, glancing toward their Number. "Miss Edwards, if you could join me?" 

Callie stopped the rotation of the platform and dropped a cloth over the clay. She slid out from under the tarp gracefully, and moved around the table, wiping her hands on a rag before taking a seat next to Harold on the couch. He slid the laptop over to rest in front of her. 

"A clockwise motion on the trackpad will increase the volume," he directed as he activated the speaker on his phone. "Were you able to coordinate with Detective Fusco?" he asked his partner, giving her a moment to acclimate herself.

There was a slight hesitation as Callie reached blindly forward, but once her fingers touched the laptop, they moved with surety, adjusting the volume only slightly upward as Reese answered.

_"Lionel's still got reporters on his heels. He's going to stop at one of the shelters we hadn't cleared yet to try to keep them on that scent, instead of chasing the one we're after. Once he shakes them, he'll pick up on the interviews."_

"We're ready on this end," Harold informed him. 

The sounds emanating from the cell's speaker for the next few minutes traced Reese's path through the building that housed Atrium Developments, and past the receptionist who reluctantly cleared the way for a visit with the company's CEO. They heard John identify himself as a detective with the NYPD, then a deep male voice boomed through the speaker.

_"I'm a busy man, Detective. What's this about?"_

Harold glanced at their Number. A deep frown creased her forehead, but she wasn't giving him any indication that she'd immediately recognized Robert Sims' voice.

_"We're close to closing the investigation into Councilwoman Adder's death,"_ John explained.

_"It's about time. Even dead, that bitch is costing me money."_

Callie jerked back in dismay. Harold immediately muted their end of the call. 

"Miss Edwards?"

She shook her head and held up her hand so she could continue to listen. 

_"...tying up some loose ends. Your company is one of the finalists for a development in the Councilwoman's district."_

_"We bid a lot of projects. That one's been a nightmare from the outset, all because Adder wanted to make sure a bunch of worthless drunks had a 'safe environment' to crawl into at night."_

_"You're not a fan of the homeless."_ Reese's words were casual, but Harold could hear the rage seething below the surface. 

_"Keeping a shelter in that area's a waste of good real estate."_

"It's not him," Callie said abruptly. "He's a pompous bigoted ass, but he's not the one I heard arguing with Marie."

Harold unmuted the call and took it off speaker. "He's not involved, John."

A roughly cleared throat was Reese's confirmation before a click disconnected the call from his end. Harold hoped his partner's patience held long enough for John to get through a few more minutes with the man without forcibly pointing out the errors in his thinking.

Callie sat back, shaking her head. "I'm sorry. I kind of over-reacted at first. Hearing him talk about Marie that way..."

"Completely understandable, Miss Edwards." Harold pulled the laptop toward him and accessed the file on the next developer on their list. Moments later the details were on their way to Reese's phone. 

"Are all of them going to be like that?" Callie asked. "Just...out for money? Marie had such high hopes for improving that area. For everyone that lived there."

"Money isn't always the root of all evil, but the lure of it can influence the choices and actions of even the best intentioned," Harold murmured absently, recalling the years he'd spent so focused on his work that he'd barely been aware of what was happening around him. The attack on the World Trade Center--and Nathan's pointed observations about how they had failed in their goal to change the world--had connected him to a larger purpose. He had poured his energies and a portion of the fortune he'd stockpiled into building the Machine. Nathan's death had been the impetus to narrow that focus to the lives on the Irrelevant List. 

"Sometimes it takes a significant change in a person's life to get them to view the world differently," he offered gently. 

She scowled. "Doing a little head-shrinking, Harold?" 

"Speaking from experience."

Callie shoved to her feet and padded around the table to take her place on the floor again. "You sound like Marie. She was always pushing me to get out...get involved." She pulled the cloth off the half-formed pot. "She wanted me to set up a storefront studio. Teach classes to the kids in the neighborhood." She snorted derisively. "Like that would work."

Harold glanced at his phone and decided he could spare a few minutes before returning to the task of culling information from the financial reports he'd been sorting through. He pulled up the detailed plans the developers had submitted, scanning through them quickly. He was certain he'd seen--yes, there it was.

"I imagine if she'd had the opportunity to cast her vote, she might have chosen Vincent Grant's company," he said. "Their design incorporated small storefront shops, and affordable living spaces. Their plans for the refurbishing and expansion of the current homeless shelter...overall their ideas look quite intriguing."

Her hands stilled on the clay for a few moments, then she gave the top plate a nudge and bent to her work. "Intriguing how?" she asked, with just the right amount of 'casual' in her tone, that if he hadn't been listening closely, would have fooled him.

Pleased that she'd taken the bait, and hoping Grant wasn't the individual responsible for the Councilwoman's death, Harold began to read the developer's proposal out loud.


	5. Chapter 5

***********************************************************************************

_There are many degrees of sight and many degrees of blindness._   
_What senses do we lack that we cannot see another world all around us?_

***********************************************************************************

 

Reese slid behind the wheel of his unmarked sedan and yanked the door closed with enough force to rock the car. Fifteen minutes with the second developer, Gordon Fitzmaier, had been fourteen too many. Callie had almost immediately decreed that the whiny voice of the president of Fitz Design/Build was pitched too high to be the man she had overheard, but Reese had guided him into a lengthier explanation of his current woes, just to make sure. He regretted every second of it. 

Unlike Sims, whose vehement disdain seemed to be focused on the less fortunate members of society, Fitzmaier hated _everyone._ Rich or poor, union or undocumented worker, black or white--purple with yellow dots if such a person existed--he was sure they were all out to screw him. His current war with the plumbers union was just the latest trade organization he'd taken on. Ironically they were fighting back in the most painful way possible; flushing his profits down the toilet by delaying work on one of his projects. 

"I'd like to flush _him,_ " John groused. "What is it about these guys, Finch? They're fixated on blocking out the sky with concrete and steel, but they don't give a damn about the people that are going to live and work in their buildings."

_"Miss Edwards and I had a similar conversation after your interview with Mr. Sims,"_ Harold's sympathetic voice murmured in his ear. _"If it's any consolation, I do have high hopes for one of the developers on the list: Community Partners, owned by Vincent Grant. Miss Edwards seemed to think the Councilwoman would have happily embraced their plans."_

"Let's hope he looks as good in person as he does on paper," Reese muttered grimly.

_"Indeed."_ A soft sigh floated across the line. _"Detective Fusco's day isn't proceeding any more palatably than yours. During his sweep of the shelter, he located the individual who was using the alley where Councilwoman Adder was killed as a temporary home. Given the presence of the media, Lionel had no choice but to arrest him. He'll be tied up at the station for some time."_

"Does the guy have an alibi?"

_"His memory won't be deemed particularly dependable, given his history of alcohol abuse. He claims he was at the shelter that night, but they are understaffed and can't account for his presence. He admitted to having met the Councilwoman several times during her visits to the neighborhood, and when he was arrested, he was in possession of a knife similar to the one found next to her body."_

"Damn." After seeing the Coroner's report he'd been so sure Adder's murder had been committed by a professional. "Any chance--"

_"If you're questioning your instincts, John, please cease. The gentleman in question, 'Hefty' as he prefers to be addressed--and which I assume is an allusion to the trash bags he uses to collect aluminum cans, as opposed to a reference to his physical appearance, based on the photos posted by the over-eager media that show him to be near-skeletal--is someone even I could potentially best in a physical altercation. Councilwoman Adder was an avid jogger and spent several days a week working out with a personal trainer. I seriously doubt she would have had any trouble defending herself if he were the perpetrator. In any case, Miss Edwards' Number is still on the Machine's list, which means the threat to her life remains, despite his arrest."_

Reese felt some of his tension ease as his partner's words sunk in. He checked his phone for the address of the next developer, and started the car, pulling out of his space at the curb as soon as there was a break in traffic. 

"How's Callie doing?"

_"She's...distressed. Understandably. She certainly shares your opinions about the gentlemen you've interviewed so far. But she's better than when you left, and has demonstrated some novel approaches for coping with stress. At the moment, she's back in her studio conducting what you would term 'aggressive therapy.'"_

"Oh?"

_"In theory, she's kneading clay. From the sounds, it appears more punching is involved than gentle manipulation. I believe I heard her mutter something about a 'right cross'. It seems to settle her. Perhaps I should look into acquiring a batch of clay for your use. It might result in fewer bruised knuckles or shattered kneecaps."_

Reese twitched a grin at his partner's subtle reminder of his preference for action over diplomacy. A view their Number apparently shared. He was only half-joking when he replied, "Don't drop your guard, Harold. She's got some sharp tools and a back door."

_"Bear's keeping an eye on her from the threshold. She seems to intrigue him."_

"Protective instincts. He can sense she's vulnerable."

_"Perhaps."_

Harold didn't sound like he was buying that as the only explanation, but he shifted back to work mode before John could pursue it further. 

_"I've found some additional information on Calvin Walsh, your next subject. He was something of a quiet playboy prior to his father's death a year ago. Since inheriting the company his family founded, Mr. Walsh's name makes a regular appearance in the headlines of the gossip columns. He's linked to some rather unsavory individuals. Rumor has it, he likes high-stakes poker."_

"That can run up some pretty high debt."

_"He's blown through most of his personal inheritance, and I found some unusual transactions in the corporate accounts over the last few months. Payments to vendors, signed by Mr. Walsh, totaling approximately $485,000. None of those vendors appear to actually exist."_

"Sounds like he's paying off some gambling markers."

_"That would be my guess as well. Just under a half-million dollars in operating capital will be awarded upfront to the developer the Council chooses for the project. If Mr. Walsh was counting on that influx of money to cover his acts of embezzlement, and discovered there was a chance he wasn't going to receive it-"_

"It'd be a good motive for murder," John finished grimly. "I'll keep that in mind while we have our 'chat'." He studied the traffic starting to back up ahead. "I'm about to hit the beginning of rush hour. It'll probably take me almost an hour to get to his offices."

_"Understood. We'll be awaiting your call."_


	6. Chapter 6

**********************************************************

_Memories establish the past;_   
_Senses perceive the present;_   
_Imaginations shape the future._

**********************************************************

 

Harold spent some time digging up information on the individuals Walsh had been linked to, and composed an email for Fusco, asking him to check for any criminal records. He had just sent it when Bear scrambled to his feet outside the door to the studio. Harold looked up to find their Number hovering in the doorway, seemingly reluctant to make her way past the Malinois. 

"Bear, _Hier,_ " he commanded. 

The dog trotted over and immediately dropped into a 'sit' next to him. " _Bravy,_ Bear," Harold murmured, giving him a scratch behind the ear.

Callie took a few steps into the main room. "What you just said to him...what language was that?"

"Dutch."

She half-turned toward the kitchen and Harold thought that would be the end of their exchange, but to his surprise, she altered course and joined him. She curled up in the chair to his right, well within touching distance of Bear. The Malinois, despite his obvious eagerness to greet her, held to his training and remained seated at Harold's feet.

"He's not a 'service' dog, is he?" 

"Not precisely. He _was_ military trained. John--" Harold hesitated, unsure how to explain how Bear had come into his life without giving too much away, finally settling on, "John introduced us." 

She unwound herself enough to stretch out a hand toward Bear. Harold murmured the release command and the Malinois immediately shifted toward her. He nosed her hand gently, then nudged his head against her palm. She buried her fingers in his fur, a soft croon and wide smile all the encouragement Bear needed to edge closer. 

"You _like_ dogs," Harold observed quietly.

"Love 'em to death," Callie replied, stroking Bear's muzzle. "Always had at least one when I was growing up." Her voice was filled with longing. 

Harold frowned. "Then why--"

"Don't I have one? Stubborn pride, I guess. It's bad enough imagining the look on people's faces when you're walking around thumping a white cane in front of you, broadcasting your handicap. Add a dog to the picture?" She shook her head. 

He knew exactly the 'look' she meant. He'd seen enough of it directed toward him when he'd been confined to a wheelchair after the ferry bombing. Even worse than the pitying glances, were the uncomfortable gazes that slid right past you, as though you didn't exist. He had learned to use the latter to his advantage, but it still rankled.

"I do just fine on my own," she added.

Harold recognized that posturing as well. And knew the truth of it to be a lie.

His gaze fell on the empty raku tea bowl. The word 'raku' meant 'happiness in the accident', a whimsical definition for the volatile process that produced such unexpected results. It was an appropriate metaphor for aspects of both of their lives. Callie had formed the vessel, imposing her own vision on the clay, choosing the glaze, but her choice of techniques had freed it to become whatever it was destined to be. Fire had brought it to life, the harshest of conditions birthing unpredictable patterns and colors. So analogous to his creation of the Machine and what it had unexpectedly become. 

The bittersweet expression on her face as she stroked Bear's fur was one he'd seen reflected in the mirror in the days before he and John had gotten together: the acknowledgement of desire, stonewalled by self-imposed restrictions that put what the heart wanted forever out of reach. Building the Machine had set him on a course that had forced him to give up so many people, so many things; pushed him into a lonely existence in the shadows.

But that path had also brought John Reese into his life, and that was the point where Harold's journey diverged from Callie's. He had taken the risk--to trust, to expose who and what he was to another person. It had brought him happiness he had never thought to experience. 

Callie was still living on the fringes. "Calista' was the 'frontman' Callie hid behind so she could do the work she wanted, just as he had hid within Ingram's shadow, preferring to be the silent partner and let Nathan stand in the limelight. 

Unlike him, however, she didn't _need_ to hide from the world. 

He empathized with her desire for privacy, understood how loss could cripple you even if you appeared whole. She'd made great strides, rediscovered a way to bring her incredible talent to the world, yet she was still in hiding. Alone. 

Seeing her interact with Bear, listening to her talk about her friendship with the Councilwoman, it was obvious a part of her regretted the limitations she'd placed on her life. 

"Sometimes the steps we take to protect ourselves end up costing us more than we ever dreamed," he offered quietly. "It's impossible to avoid the obstacles life puts in our path, Miss Edwards. But having a partner, someone you can trust, can make the journey less onerous."

"You make it sound so simple, when it's anything but." She rubbed her cheek against Bear's soft fur, then leaned back in the chair, shaking her head. "A dog would be a distraction right now. One I can't afford. I don't have much time left." 

Harold stared at her in alarm. "What?"

"I'm not dying, Harold. It's nothing like that..." Her voice trailed off, sightless gaze aimed toward the shelf of pottery at the far side of the room. "Only a handful of people know that the woman who signs her pots 'Calista' is blind. People see the work. The craft. Once word gets out, and it will, it won't be about that anymore."

Harold nodded slowly. She was right. Her work was stunning, but _what_ she was creating would always be tainted, to some degree, by her handicap. The notoriety of being a blind artist would always overshadow the quality of her art. 

"Even before the accident, I never wanted to be famous," she mused. "I just wanted to create beautiful things. Pieces that would touch people in some way. Give them a moment of joy. Make them see the world differently." 

Harold's throat tightened against a surge of emotion. That was so close to what his dreams had once been. The desire to create had always driven him. It had prompted the 'memory machine' he had made for his father. Had led him to develop the heuristic programming that ultimately formed the Machine. 

Callie grabbed the embroidered throw and wrapped it around her, huddling in it's protective folds. Sensing her distress, Bear leaned in to rest his head in her lap. After a few moments, she slid a hand out and absently fondled his ears. 

"After the accident, I was a mess," she admitted. "Not so much physically. My blindness was caused by a pot exploding as I was taking out of the kiln. Raku kilns fire at up to 1800 degrees Fahrenheit and the pots are extracted at their maximum temperature. The thermal shock of rapid cooling can shatter the clay, usually because of imperfections in the mix or the construction of the piece, but sometimes it just happens. I was wearing protective gear and safety glasses which kept the damage down, but the lenses on the glasses didn't stop all the fragments from getting through. I was lucky to get treatment immediately, but I knew even before I left Japan, I'd never see again."

She tapped her temple. "I _knew_ it in here. But every morning...there was that moment before I opened my eyes...I could pretend it had been a dream. A nightmare that I would wake up from, whole and able to see the sun shining on the leaves of the tree outside my window."

Harold knew that moment all too well.

"My head still wasn't in the right place when I moved to Perkins," she continued. "I went through the motions. I learned how to exist in a world I couldn't see. But I couldn't imagine my place in it. I'd lived and breathed art from the time I was little, fingerpainting designs on my bedroom walls, begging my mom for more Playdough so I could make even bigger pots. The staff at the school tried to point me in different directions, give me ideas of other careers, but I only wanted what I thought I couldn't have.

"There were a lot of tactile exercises in the curriculum. One day they plunked a couple bars of clay in front of me. I could tell just by the smell it was the cheap stuff. Like the kind parents buy for their kids at the dimestore. I didn't even want to touch it at first. But my fingers...itched for it. When I finally picked it up, started warming the bars in my hands, squishing the clay between my fingers...it was like I could breathe again. All the sudden there were pictures in my head. It was like I could 'see' what the clay would look like if I formed it just so...pressed down with my thumbs, guided the outer curve with my fingers."

She paused, taking a breath, releasing it slowly. "da Vinci once wrote that, _'The painter has the Universe in his mind and hands.'_ At that moment, I understood exactly what he meant.” A wry smile curved her lips. "That first pot was a disaster, and not just because of the cheap clay. It took time to get my mind and fingers in sync. I learned that if I listened...the clay would speak to me." 

Callie shrugged, as though admitting that sounded rather strange. "The raku techniques I had studied in Japan fit my situation perfectly. So much of the beauty of the finished piece comes from the the choice of the glazes, and the unpredictability of the firing and finishing process. I had a good chunk of money left from the insurance settlement for the accident. I knew I could afford to set up a studio. I chose New York because a good friend who agreed to be my agent lived here. She had connections to a lot of the small galleries, and if things went well, I figured she could get me a showing or two."

"Obviously things went well," Harold noted.

"I practically fell over when I got my first sale. Calista's first commission? I was a basket case for days. Half a bottle of wine and a lot of hand holding made me realize I could still have my dream. If I was careful. I'd signed those first pieces as 'Calista' kind of on a whim, but it became my pseudonym. My agent played up the 'mysterious reclusive artist' angle to explain why Calista was never seen in public. 

"I have so many pieces in my head, Harold. So many things I still want to create before--" She shook her head. "I need to do what I can while the secret still holds. There will be time for _me_ later."

He wanted to object. To tell her that the 'tomorrow' she was counting on might be twisted by fate, and not just because the Machine had given them her Number. He had banked on a future three times in his life and lost the world each time--his father to early onset dementia, Nathan to the ferry bombing, Grace because he couldn't bear to place her in danger. Time was fleeting, each second infinitely precious. That was why he had chosen to hold on tight to each moment with John. He knew all too well that everything could change in an instant. 

But he restrained himself, asking only a single question. "If the work _is_ what's important, does it matter what the world thinks?" 

Her head turned toward him sharply. She opened her mouth as if to object, then closed it, swallowing hard. Silence stretched between them for a few moments, then she gently shifted Bear's head off her lap and untangled herself from the throw. 

"How long before John calls?" she ground out, voice tight with strain.

Harold sat back, accepting her diversion with a barely audible sigh. "About fifteen minutes."

She leaned forward, slightly trembling fingers searching for the tea pot on the table. "This has gone cold," she murmured, coasting her fingers around the rounded body of the pot. "I'll make some more."

She pushed to her feet and headed toward the kitchen, Bear padding at her side. Before she disappeared through the arched opening, Harold felt a glimmer of hope when she reached down and stroked the Malinois' head.


	7. Chapter 7

****************************************************************

_So the unwanting soul sees what's hidden,_  
_and the ever-wanting soul sees only what it wants._

****************************************************************

 

John paused just inside the glass doors of Walsh Development's corporate offices, Harold's soft voice in his ear confirming he and their Number were linked in and standing by. The firm's lobby projected 'success'--thick cushy carpeting, large framed pictures of finished projects gracing the walls, a few expensive looking pieces of architecturally-inspired sculpture placed for maximum effect. 

The two leather-jacketed thugs looming over the desk of the receptionist didn't match the opulent setting. 

From the way the young woman behind the reception desk was leaning back in her chair, there were more threats than pleasantries in the muttered conversation being exchanged. 

"Looks like I'm not the only with an interest in Walsh," Reese murmured, snapping a quick photo of the two men and sending it to Finch. He reached back to touch the pistol at his waist then ambled forward, stopping a few feet behind them. "Problem, boys?" he asked pleasantly.

Ugly #1 and #2 glanced at him just long enough to deliver a dismissive stare and turned back to harass the receptionist.

John closed the distance in a single long step. He grabbed two fistfuls of leather and jerked the men away from the desk. As they stumbled back, he pivoted, planted a hand on their chests and shoved. Ugly #1 went sprawling. The thick carpeting muffled his impact with the floor, but his snarled curse rang out clearly. Ugly #2 backpedaled, but kept his feet and his silence. He reversed directions, hand sliding inside his jacket as he took a step toward Reese.

John flipped his black suit coat jacket open, revealing the badge on his belt, and the thug pulled up short. "Unless you've got a permit for that cannon you're toting, you might want to keep it in the holster," Reese suggested.

Ugly #1 lurched to his feet, seemingly intent on ignoring the unspoken warning in John's low voice, but the second thug flung out his arm to halt his forward motion. Reese met their glares with a shark-like smile. 

Ugly #2 finally broke the tense tableau, directing his partner toward the exit with a jerk of his head. "Your boss can't hide forever," he snarled at the receptionist, pushing his companion out the door. "We'll be back."

John waited until they had moved out of sight on the sidewalk before turning back to the young woman behind the desk. She was wide-eyed, the strokes of blush on her cheeks sharply defined against her pale skin.

"You all right?"

She blinked, focused on him. "Y-yes...thank you, Mr.--"

"Detective Riley." He pulled his badge off his belt and handed it to her. "I need to speak to Calvin Walsh."

The receptionist grimaced and passed the badge back to him. "I'm sorry, Mr. Walsh isn't available."

"When will he _be_ available?" Reese pressed, suspecting she had no clue. Walsh had probably gone to ground to avoid the 'bill collectors' who had just left. "I have a few questions about a project the company is bidding on for the City."

"Oh." She looked relieved. "Perhaps someone else can help you?"

John shook his head. "His name's on the paperwork." 

"Well that's--" her gaze dropped to the desk. She fiddled nervously with the pen in her hands for a moment, then took a quick look over her shoulder toward the closed doors that led to the inner offices, before glancing back up at him. "Mr. Walsh is the only one _ever_ listed," she murmured. 

_"Not just an embezzler, but a plagiarist taking credit for other people's hard work as well,"_ Harold muttered in disgust.

"If you have specific questions on one of the proposals, Richard Reynolds would be the one to talk to," the receptionist offered. 

_"Marie knew someone by that name,"_ Callie chimed in abruptly. _"I met her for coffee a couple weeks ago. When the server took me to her table she was just finishing up a discussion with someone. Saying good-bye. I never heard him say anything, but Marie called him 'Mr. Reynolds'."_

Her explanation was almost drowned out by the rapid tat-a-tat of Harold's typing. _"There are seventy-eight 'R. Reynolds' listed for Manhattan alone, John. Can you--"_

Reese snagged a business card out of the holder on the secretary's desk. "Richard T. Reynolds," he read off the card. "VP of Operations."

"He pretty much runs the show," the receptionist continued. She took another glance over her shoulder. "In fact it's kind of a joke around here that Rich does Mr. Walsh's signature better than he does."

 _"It appeared that Walsh wrote out those suspicious payments, but if he didn't..."_ There was a world of worry in Harold's voice. A feeling Reese shared.

"Sounds like Reynolds is the man to talk to," John addressed the receptionist. "Where would I find him?"

"He's on a site visit today." She wrote an address and phone number on a sticky note, and handed it to John. "That's his personal cell number." 

"Thanks." Reese sent a text with the information she'd just given him to Finch under the guise of adding it to his phone's contacts list. He pulled one of his NYPD business cards out of his pocket and jotted Fusco's number on the back before handing it to her. "My number and my partner's," he explained. "You get any more visits like the one I walked in on, call one of us. We'll make sure they don't bother you again."

"I don't want to cause any trouble," she demurred, but she clutched the card gratefully. 

"Sounds like your boss finds that easily enough on his own," John replied. 

She nodded and tucked his card under the base of her phone. "Thank you. Do you want me to call ahead? Let Mr. Reynolds know you're coming?"

The last thing Reese wanted was to alert Reynolds that an NYPD detective was sniffing at his heels. "That won't be necessary. I have another interview to conduct nearby that might take a while. I'll give him a call myself and arrange a time to get together."

The pleasant smile he gave her morphed into a tight-lipped frown the minute he was through the outer doors. "Harold--"

 _"Miss Edwards is checking her personal calendar for the date of that meeting,"_ Finch answered smoothly. _"I've taken you off speaker so as not to disturb her."_

John lengthened his stride, hurrying toward his car. "If Reynolds is the one behind Adder's death, he's been face to face with our girl, Finch. If he's keeping tabs on the media coverage, it wouldn't take much to make the connection between an 'unusual' witness and a blind woman joining the Councilwoman for coffee."

_"Yes, and if he doesn't share Miss Edwards' confidence in Councilwoman's Adder's ethics in regard to Council business, that may not be our only problem."_

John reached the sedan and slid behind the wheel, cranking the vehicle to life, horns blaring around him as he shot out into traffic. Callie hadn't thought the man she had overheard had seen her, but even if he hadn't, he might have gotten nervous with the news of a possible witness and started backtracking his trail to see where he might have slipped up. A check of property records would have revealed their Number owned the building where the argument with the Councilwoman had taken place. If he didn't know Adder had a habit of of haunting the neighborhoods in her District at all hours, he might have thought she visited Callie after they parted and disclosed what had happened.

"He might know where Callie lives," John rasped grimly. 

_"Should we relocate to the safe house?"_

Reese considered it. Finch had good security there, including a few non-lethal deterrents he had designed to keep out trespassers. But the possibility that Callie's home was known to whoever was responsible for the Councilwoman's death made John reject the option. If the building was under surveillance, Harold and their Number would be targets the minute they stepped out the door, vulnerable to attack while in transit. 

"Better stay put until we nail down who the players in this mess actually are, and find the rocks they're hiding under. Stay indoors and keep Bear on alert." Reese made a hard right at the next corner. "I'm heading to the site where Reynolds is supposed to be working."

_"I'll contact Detective Fusco and have him meet you there. I fear arresting Mr. Reynolds won't be the end of the trail. I'm looking at his finances now. He and his wife Marjorie have a joint account at First United. There's nothing suspicious in the deposits or transactions."_

"But..." John prodded. 

_"In the proposal I was reading to Miss Edwards, there was a reference to the value of the property within the redevelopment zone of the proposed project. It's significantly undervalued for New York real estate. Many of the parcels are already owned by the city, either claimed through Eminent Domain, or foreclosure. Several are still privately owned and once the Council approves the plan, the City will have to purchase them at much greater cost than what they would sell for now. The owners of three of those privately owned parcels apparently didn't want to wait. Those properties closed last week."_

"Who bought them?"

_"An M. Winthrop. That was Reynolds' wife's maiden name. The total paid out was roughly $30,000 less than the amount I've been trying to trace from the checks written to those fictitious vendors."_

"Thirty grand would easily buy the services of a paid killer," John mused grimly. "You think the wife's in on it?"

" _I think it more likely Reynolds' gift for forgery was applied to more than just the Walsh Development accounts."_

"Can you backtrace the money for the purchase of the properties?"

_"They were wire transfers. It will take some time to determine where they originated. I'll keep digging. And I'll look into the phone records for Reynolds' private cell number. His call history might shed some additional light on the situation."_

"Send me a photo of Reynolds, so I can find him on the site without announcing the cops have arrived."

_"Already on it's way. And John, be aware: Reynolds has a permit to carry concealed. Records indicate he owns a Glock 17 G4."_


	8. Chapter 8

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_When I lost my sight...people said I was brave._   
_But it is not bravery; I have no choice._   
_I wake up and live my life. Don't you do the same?_

***************************************************************

 

Callie brought back a fresh pot of tea and poured for both of them, but she didn't settle, choosing to roam the apartment instead; sensitive fingers fluttering over objects on the shelves, tracing the labels on the various record albums she seemed fixated on rearranging. Bear followed her movements intently from his guard position by the front door, his attention shifting from her only when his sharp ears picked up the occasional noise from the street. 

Harold was aware of her distracted prowling and the Malinois' alert status, but the bulk of his attention was focused on trying to hack Reynolds' cell carrier without raising any alarms. He finally coded a virus to slip in and grab what he wanted, then sat back to let it do its job. 

"Is there anything I can do to help put you at ease, Miss Edwards?"

"Everything just got pretty real with that last phone call," she admitted. "Do you really think this Reynolds guy is the one that killed Marie, or had her killed?"

"We should have the answer to that shortly. John's very good at getting the truth out of even the least cooperative of suspects."

Her lips curved in a small smile. "I'll bet he is." She paused next to her computer in the midst of another lap of the main room. "Will it distract you if I put on some music?"

"Not at all."

Harold's eyes widened as a slow arpeggio of notes filled the air moments later. The pure vibrancy of plucked harp strings emanated from the speakers placed around the room, wrapping around him as though he were a part of it. The quality of the sound was--

"--spectacular," he murmured. 

"Can't beat 180 gram vinyl," she agreed, easing the volume down a bit. "Even a digital copy from it is better than anything they're putting out these days."

"Has your hearing always been so discerning?"

"Very delicately put, Harold. Most people stumble all over themselves trying to ask, yet NOT ask about my blindness." She sighed. "It's true to some extent, what they say about the other senses being enhanced when you lose one. You learn to compensate. But you already know about having to make adjustments when your body doesn't work the same way it once did."

He eyed her warily. "I'm not sure what you mean, Miss Edwards."

"I'm guessing you were in an accident at some point," she replied, crossing the room to sink into the couch next to him. "There's a slight hesitation in your gait...an unevenness to your steps, and you scuff one shoe a little more than the other on the floor. Whatever happened affected your neck, too, I think. There's hardly any sound to the drag of the fabric of your sleeves against your body. That suggests you don't swing your arms very much when you walk. And when you've talked to me when I'm not in your direct line of sight, the cushions of the couch 'scrunch' louder, as though you're not just turning your head, but your upper body, in order to see me."

Harold stared at her in stunned amazement.

"The tea bowl rattles on the table when you set it down," she continued. "Not a lot and not every time. More like your hand tremors occasionally. Not that it seems to affect the speed of your typing."

He blinked and tried to find his voice. "I--"

Her face suddenly flushed and she pulled back a bit. "I'm sorry. That was _incredibly_ rude. And invasive."

"I'd call it...perceptive," Harold reassured her, reaching out to touch her arm. "Your hearing, and attention to detail is quite extraordinary. You would have made a good detective."

She twitched a smile, but her expression grew serious. "I've been thinking about that question you asked me," she said softly. "I don't have an answer yet. It would be easier if Marie was still alive. I could always run stuff past her and she'd give me a straight answer."

Prudence dictated that once a Number was finished, they have no further contact. It was safer for all parties concerned, especially now, with Samaritan breathing down their necks. Dr. Tillman was an exception to the rule, but a necessary one since they often had need of her medical skills. Dead men didn't make new friends without significant risk, but he sorely wanted to help. Callie had lost her closest confidant. While Harold had kept secrets even from Nathan, he remembered the gaping hole the loss of his partner had left in his life. 

"If you find yourself in the need of a sounding board as you weigh your options," he offered quietly. "Perhaps I can lend an ear. Or John, if you'd rather. He has a very...strategic approach to problem solving." 

Her sightless gaze turned toward him. "Could I ask a favor, now?" she said, one hand lifting tentatively off her lap. "Could I 'see' you?"

It took him a moment to understand what she was asking. It would be an invasion of the personal space he typically guarded so closely. He took a breath, let it out, then reached out to close his fingers lightly around hers. "Of course."

She scooted closer and placed a hand on each side of his face. 

Her palms and fingers were cool, her touch gossamer light. Her fingertips skimmed his skin like a wisp of breeze. Her eyes didn't even attempt to follow the course of her fingertips as they ruffled over his long sideburns, or her thumbs as they explored the modest cleft in his chin. He found himself studying her, wondering about the picture she was building in her mind.

She nodded absently when her fingers discovered his glasses, as if already suspecting he wore them. Her fingers slid lightly along the bows. "Near sighted, or far?"

"Near."

He offered no objection when she slid them off and investigated the laugh/stress lines at the corners of his eyes, but his nose twitched when she stroked a fingertip down the length of it. Her lips curved in amusement, then twisted a little sideways as though she was trying to reproduce the slight sideways cant of his mouth. 

"So, how long have you and John been together?" 

He jerked back, the out-of-the-blue question catching him completely off guard. "How did you--?"

She tapped her ear. "The way you say each other's names. Love has a sound, if you know what to listen for."

"It's not...common knowledge."

"Ah." Her fingertips traced the shell of his ear. "No PDAs."

He allowed himself a small smile. "Our work seldom brings us together in public, but no."

"Too bad. I bet he's a hunk."

Harold sputtered. 

"Tall, dark and handsome, right?" 

"John tends to turn heads, yes." He frowned and her fingers slid across the grooves carved by the action. "How could you _know_ that?"

She smiled impishly as she patted his spiky hair. "Same way I knew you'd prefer tea over coffee. A lucky guess, Harold, combined with the presence you both project."

"Presence?"

"You're probably the quietest guest I've ever had, but you...resonate. Like a tuning fork. John, too." She laughed softly. "And that's a compliment, in case you were wondering. You're kind of an alto-tenor, holding everything together in the middle. John...he's like a deep bass note rumbling underneath." 

"That still doesn't explain the tea."

She blushed slightly. "You were so polite when you introduced yourself and apologized for bringing Bear in without checking first. And despite my insistence, you refuse to call me by my first name. It kind of kicked in the manners I'd learned in Japan. Offering you a proper tea seemed...respectful."

She traced the line of his jaw once more, then settled back, hands folded on her lap. "You have a beautifully expressive face, Harold. I bet you turn a few heads, too. Thank you," she said gravely. 

He slid his glasses back into place. "You're welcome, Miss Edwards," he replied just as solemnly.

His laptop pinged. 

"Good news or bad?" she asked in a small voice.

He pulled the laptop closer and opened the file his 'worm' had retrieved, scanning the data quickly. "Good news, Miss Edwards. _Very_ good news."


	9. Chapter 9

***********************************************************************

_Gold conjures up a mist about a man,_   
_more destructive of all his old senses and lulling to his feelings_   
_than the fumes of charcoal._

***********************************************************************

 

The project site was a massive office building. The lower levels were completely faced in, but rough construction was still in progress on the upper levels, the high-men still setting steel. A harried electrician directed Reese to the elevator that would take him up to the floor where Reynolds was working.

As the elevator settled on the eighteenth floor, John buttoned his suit coat jacket, drawing his Wall Street persona around him like a cloak. When the doors opened, he strode out with all the nonchalant arrogance of the entitled. He headed straight for the windows, getting his first glimpse of Reynolds while pretending to observe the City spread out below.

Roughly John's height, carrying about thirty more pounds--most of it around the middle--Reynolds didn't look like the kind of man to hire a hit, but Reese knew better than most that looks could be deceiving. Dressed casually, white hard hat perched on his head, the only sign Reynolds might be trouble was the pistol snugged into a shoulder holster under his left arm; the weapon clearly visible as he leaned over a makeshift desk of plank lumber and sawhorses, reviewing a set of blueprints. 

"I don't know who you are, buddy, but you can't be up here without a helmet," the developer growled.

_"Oh my God."_

Callie's started exclamation was more than enough confirmation that Reynolds was the man she'd overheard threatening the Councilwoman, but John still needed to determine what threat he posed to the artist. 

"Just wanted to check out the view," he replied with a casual shrug. "See if it might be worth the price you're going to be charging for rent."

Reese could see dollar signs in Reynolds' eyes as he straightened. "You're looking for space?"

"My client is." John's gaze swept the room, as though he were actually contemplating it. In reality, he was checking exits and calculating the odds on Reynolds likelihood of trying to escape once confronted. "The view's good and the space is adequate, but I'm not sure he'd like the neighborhood." 

"We're developing a number of properties," Reynolds countered, oozing charm. He gestured toward the elevator. "Why don't we go down to the office and take a look at the plans for some of our other projects? Talk about what your client might prefer."

A contained space for a 'chat' suited John's purposes perfectly. 

Before the elevator doors had even closed, Reynolds had launched into a sales pitch, enthusing about the market, available properties, and the opportunities in the current economy. Reese let him spew, far more interested in the information pouring in through his earpiece from his partner. 

" _Mr. Reynolds cell phone records are quite enlightening. He used an electronic banking app to deposit the checks written off the Walsh account. The transactions are routed through a server used by several off-shore banks. The payouts for the properties purchased in his wife's name were handled in a similar fashion._

_"Reynolds has also made numerous phone calls to a private number belonging to a Gregory Crawford. They occurred at rather unusual times of the day, and lasted less than a minute. Hardly enough time to conduct legitimate business, but long enough to set up assignations, or to confirm a hit. Crawford works for Patton Security, a firm Walsh Development has contracted with for the past year. Patton offers basic security services and also boasts an executive protection division. Its employees are **all confirmed ex-military.** " _

"Too bad the City Council's put a hold on that development in Councilwoman Adder's District," Reese noted, interrupting Reynolds' discourse. "The _late_ Councilwoman Adder," he added after a pause.

Reynolds' gaze flicked up toward the numbers over the door. He pulled off his hard hat, letting it dangle from the fingers of his left hand as he dragged his right through sweat-matted hair. "I'm sure it will be back in gear soon. We're one of the finalists in the bidding and I have a good feeling about our chances."

"Well, you kind of stacked the deck, didn't you?" John rasped. He leaned against the wall of the elevator and crossed his arms over his chest. "Paying for the hit on the Councilwoman put a dent in your profits, but you're still set to get a big payoff, no matter who gets the contract."

Reynolds reared back in surprise. "What are you--?"

"I know about your embezzling scheme, and the properties you bought with that money. And I know you hired Gregory Crawford to get the Councilwoman out of the way." Reese straightened, unbuttoned his coat, and let his hands fall loosely at his sides. "What I don't know," he took a step forward, "is whether that thirty grand you paid out bought one hit, or two."

Reynolds face twisted in a snarl. He flipped the hard hat at John's face. 

Reese anticipated the move and shifted left, tracking the Glock Reynolds jerked from the holster. He grabbed Reynolds' arm, shoving the pistol upward. The weapon discharged, sending the round into the ceiling of the elevator. The sound was like a thunderclap in the enclosed space. 

Reynolds struggled to bring the gun down, but Reese forced his arm to the side, slamming the hand holding the weapon against the wall of the elevator, and pinning it there. He grunted as Reynolds hammered a fist into his ribs, answering with with a strike of his own that brought the heel of his right hand up under the developer's jaw. 

Reynolds' head snapped back; his grip on the pistol loosened. John yanked the gun out of his hand and kneed him in the gut. The developer's breath left him in a whoosh of air. Reese shoved him into a corner of the elevator and let the man sink to the floor. 

A quick glance at the lit number above the doors, revealed they'd descended to the fifth floor. John popped open the elevator's service panel and slit the wire to the alarm, than slapped the panel cover into place and hit the emergency button. The elevator jolted to a stop. 

Reynolds' gaze flicked from John's face to the shield gleaming at his belt. "You got nothing you can prove in court," he hissed. 

Reese leaned down and pressed the muzzle of the Glock against right Reynolds' temple. "I'm not worried about getting to court," he rasped. " _You_ should be, though. Because if you don't give me the answers I want, you're not making it out of this elevator."

Reynolds' eyes widened. "You can't. You're a cop"

John shrugged. "Shift ended an hour ago. I don't let the department dictate what I do after hours." He pushed the barrel of the pistol harder against Reynolds' skin. With his free hand he reached into his pocket and pulled out the suppressor for his Sig. It wouldn't fit the Glock, but he was betting Reynolds didn't know that. 

He held the silencer up for the developer to see. "Lot of noise on a site like this. If no one heard the shot that landed in the ceiling...no one's going to hear the one that blows your brains out." 

Reese lifted the Glock away from Reynolds' head and lined up the suppressor with the muzzle. "I'll get out on the next floor, hit the stop button again, and take the stairs down. Somebody'll get curious when the elevator takes too long to respond. No one's going to question it was suicide, not after they start digging up all your dirty secrets."

The harsh smell of urine filled the car. Reynolds slumped, all the fight drained out of him. "What do you want to know?"

"What was your deal with Crawford?" 

"I paid him to kill Adder." 

"Who else?" John pressed.

"The blind chick she was always hanging around with. Edwards."

"When?"

"It's on his timetable. He was gonna call me when it was done."

"Good. Just one more thing." John flipped the Glock and slammed the butt against Reynolds' head. 

Reese hit button for the first floor and elevator hummed to life. When the doors opened, he found Fusco waiting. Lionel's gaze flicked from John to Reynolds, a smirk twisting his lips.

"You mind taking out the trash, Lionel?" Reese asked, stepping out. 

"Be happy to." Lionel entered the elevator and flipped Reynolds none-to-carefully to his belly. "Got a nice comfy cell with your name on it, asshole." He yanked the developer's arms backward and snapped on the cuffs. He glanced up at Reese. "Got anything else that needs bagging up?"

"One more, and its slippery. Have to locate it first."

Fusco jerked the dazed developer to his feet. "You got my number, if you need help cleaning up."

John nodded and headed for his car. "Finch?"

_"The phone linked to the number Reynolds called is a cheap disposable. No GPS and apparently no longer in service. I do have an address from Crawford's Patton Security files."_

"Then I'll start there."


	10. Chapter 10

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_Touch comes before sight, before speech._  
_It is the first language and the last,_  
_and it always tells the truth._

***************************************************

 

Callie was pacing again, her choppy, agitated stride a sharp contrast to the tempered strains of Mozart's, _Andante in A & Fugue in A minor,_ currently washing softly through the apartment. 

"It shouldn't be much longer," Harold tried to reassure her. "I expect John will call shortly, with good news."

"I know. This all just seems so unreal. Like I fell into one of those cop and robber shows on TV that everyone's always raving about." She blew out an exasperated breath. "I'm just jumpy. I need to work. Throwing usually burns off my jitters, but I'd just end up ruining anything I attempted to shape right now."

Keeping her occupied might make her feel less like a caged animal. He had already sent Reese everything he had found on Crawford. Staring at his laptop wouldn't help settle _his_ nerves either. 

"Perhaps a tour," he suggested.

"Tour?"

"Of your studio. I only caught a glimpse earlier. I admit to a certain--"

"Curiosity?" She grinned. 

"I'm not artistically inclined, but I do appreciate the process," he acknowledged. "And the end results."

"Okay. Although we might want to leave Bear in here, or he'll be a mess in no time. No matter how hard I try to keep ahead of it, there's always a layer of ash residue on the floor from burnt newspaper and sawdust."

Harold disconnected his phone from the laptop and slid it into his pocket. He set Bear on watch duty at the doorway to the studio and stepped inside. 

As he'd hoped, Callie settled down almost immediately as she showed off her workspace. He was intrigued with the variety of modeling and sculpting tools, some of which looked like they had been modified from their original purpose to suit her needs. 

"The specific tool isn't as important as the resulting impression it leaves on the clay," she explained when he questioned them. "I'll use anything that creates the right texture." She held up a wooden handled tool with a one-inch blade that curled in a spiral. "This was originally a flat cake knife. Pressed into the surface of the clay, it creates the suggestion of waves...or at least that's how it feels to me." 

A small brown shipping box containing a riot of garishly colored feathers, the kind one would find as cheap trinkets at a carnival, drew Harold's attention. He couldn't envision how she would find a use for them. 

"Thinking of adding some plumage to your pots, Miss Edwards?"

"Huh? Oh, the weird feathers. That box got delivered here a few days ago by mistake." She shot him a grin. "Although, you never know what might tweak my imagination."

Harold examined the pottery arrayed on the wooden drying shelves, admiring the shapes, and the impressive skill of the woman who had crafted them. "Your work _is_ extraordinary. These are beautiful even unfinished," he murmured. 

"They'll be even better if they stand up to firing," she answered. "Come see where the magic happens."

He followed her over to the heavy curtain divider. 

"Lined with fire retardant fabric," she explained, pushing it aside. 

She pointed out the kilns, one for bisque firing and the others that would accommodate the higher temperatures raku required. 

"Pulling the pots when they're superheated is the part of the process where I had to admit I had to have help." She gestured toward the metal barrels. "The drums create a reduction atmosphere, where a fire burns with less oxygen. Kind of like a smoker. The pots go directly from the raku kiln into the drums and are covered with combustibles...sawdust, shredded newspaper." 

She grinned. "Maybe those feathers, if I can't ship them back. Once the flames start, the lid goes on. Oxidation takes care of the rest. The process pulls oxygen from the clay and glaze once the air in the drum has been depleted. Where there's no glaze on a piece, the clay will turn black. The carbon in the smoke gets wicked into the clay. Different glazes produce different effects--matte or gloss finishes, flashes of color or iridescence. Copper powder mixed into the glaze makes a metallic finish, other compounds produce that crackle crazing. Traditional raku pieces are porous even after they're finished. They're not meant to be watertight, just admired for their beauty. I have to use a different glaze on the interior of the tea bowls to make them functional."

She waved a hand toward a metal shelf that held an assortment of more conventional items--several small propane torches, boxes of rolled of aluminum foil, gallon jugs of water, bins filled with scouring pads and sponges. 

"Once the chemical reaction has run its course, the pots get pulled out of the drums and set on sheets of foil to either cool a little before they're cleaned off, or they're immediately immersed in a water bath." Her enthusiasm dimmed a little. "I miss not being able to see the pieces as the final results are revealed. It was always such a surprise to see what emerged."

Harold imagined that loss would be source of constant heartbreak. "How do you gauge if a piece has come out the way you hoped?"

She waggled her fingers at him. " _'Touch is the first language and the last, and it always tells the truth.'_ I can tell. Plus I've learned to listen to my assistants' reactions. Grunts mean something didn't come out very well. Sharply inhaled breaths mean we've got a winner."

Harold's cell phone buzzed. He pulled it his from his pocket. 

_"I'm at Crawford's apartment. No sign of him, Finch."_

 

*****************************************************************************

 

John pivoted slowly, studying the small rent-by-the-month set of rooms Crawford supposedly occupied. Reese had his doubts about how much time the man actually spent there. 

Sparsely furnished, the space consisted of a bathroom, a bedroom, and a combination living space and kitchen. There were few personal items to be found: a single non-descript change of clothes hung in the bedroom closet; a pack of disposable razors and hotel-size bottles of shampoo littered the sink's vanity. 

"Crawford probably uses this as a bolt hole," he reported to his partner, peering into one of the kitchen cabinets. "He's got some canned food," he opened the tiny refrigerator, "a couple bottles of beer, and a weapons stash." Reese eyed the collection of ordnance he'd found in a quick search and dumped on the kitchen table--a variety of knives, pistols, and magazines filled with ammunition. 

_"I can delve into the DarkNet,"_ Harold offered. _"If this isn't the first time he's offered his services for hire, I might be able to pick up a lead there."_

"My gut's telling me we don't have much time left, Finch." 

Reese scanned the kitchen again. A smeared patch of something gray on the cheap Linoleum floor, in front of one of the tall skinny cabinets, caught his eye. He opened the cupboard. A black canvas duffle bag was crammed into the narrow space. John pulled it out and unzipped it. It was filled with bundles of money.

"Found his payoff. Crawford'll come back here at some point."

He set the bag aside and reached into the cabinet again, pulling out a soft-sided rifle case, a wad of brown cloth, and a pair of work boots. He didn't need to open the rifle case to know it was empty. The fabric wasn't just a bundle of rags, but a shirt. The boots--

The tread of the soles was covered with a gray residue.

Suddenly it all clicked into place. John shoved to his feet, running for the door. "Crawford's been in Callie's studio, Finch. Posing as a delivery man. Make sure the security system is online. Stay away from the windows and--

Reese winced as an ear-splitting alarm, coupled with Bear's frantic barking filled his ear.


	11. Chapter 11

***************************************************

_What makes night within us may leave stars._

***************************************************

_"Finch!"_

"That's the alarm for the back door," Callie backing away in wide-eyed fear. 

"We have an unexpected visitor, John," Harold informed his partner. He grabbed their Number's arm and pulled her toward the door to the apartment, where Bear was waiting anxiously.

_"Reynolds must have started trying to cover his tracks before Callie ever came to the station and sent Crawford to scope out her place. He probably overheard the old security codes when one of her grad students let him in on a delivery."_

That explained the 'erroneously' delivered box of feathers. Harold ushered Callie through the doorway. A second alarm screeched into life as they crossed the threshold.

"Front door," Callie gasped.

Harold cast a desperate gaze around the room. No place to hide. They'd be boxed in even further if they took shelter in Callie's bedroom. The small kitchen at least offered the protection of a brick wall and the option to retreat to the studio. He crowded their Number into the narrow space. 

The alarms abruptly fell silent.

Callie grabbed his arm. "What happened. Why did they stop?"

"It doesn't matter," Harold assured her. "The locks are still engaged."

"The security company is supposed to send someone if that happens," she insisted. 

"John will be here before they are." 

He hoped.

_"Crawford's lost the element of surprise, but he's not going to give up,"_ Reese warned, his low voice almost lost in the roar of an engine.

Bear growled, hackles raised, the Malinois' attention shifting from the front door to the windows, head turning slowly as if tracking something. 

Suddenly there was a ping of breaking glass and the shutters on one of the windows punched inward. Harold pushed Callie further back as something hit the brick archway of the kitchen with a hard thud. Shards of brick flew. Bear sunk into a crouch ready to spring as more glass shattered and chunks of their defensive barrier bounced off the wood floor.

_"Status, Finch."_

"He's shooting out the windows," Harold reported tersely.

_"Barricade yourselves in the studio."_

Harold snagged Callie's hand and pulled her into an awkward scramble toward the suggested sanctuary, barking a sharp command to Bear to follow. The Malinois slid through the doorway at their heels. Harold twisted around to slam the door shut, flinching at the sharp clang of a round bouncing off the metal. 

He flipped the lock and turned, gaze sweeping the room. "We need something heavy," he muttered. He lurched toward the shelves that held the big bags of powdered clay. He managed to drag one off the shelf and over to the door, shoving it up against the panel. He turned to retrieve another, only to find Callie had already hauled another bag halfway to him. He grabbed a corner and together they wedged it against the door. 

The metal panel shuddered from the impact of something ramming against it. 

Harold backed away, breathing hard. "That's not going to hold for long. We can try the rear exit."

_"He's got a rifle, Finch,"_ John warned. _"He can circle around and take you out before you get a dozen steps out the door. I'm close. All you have to do is slow him down."_

The door shuddered again. Harold was sure he could hear the metal of the lock groaning under the stress. "He's certainly persistent." He scanned the room once more, mind working furiously. 

His gaze slid over the jars of powdered chemicals on the tables and tracked to the shelf of cleaning supplies. He knew more than a dozen ways to create a small explosive device out of what was arrayed there, but assembling one would take more time than he feared they had. What could he--

The red cross on the wall mounted box near the sink caught his eye, sparking a wild idea. "Are there cold packs in your emergency kit?" he called out to Callie, twisting toward her. She was frozen in place, clutching at the edge of one of the tables. He limped quickly to her side, touching her arm to get her attention. "Callie." 

She jerked to life with a shudder. "Things must be bad if you're calling me by my first name." 

Her droll humor in the midst of chaos was so much like John's that Harold almost smiled. 

Almost.

"Cold packs. As many as you have. Aluminum foil, a propane torch and an igniter." 

"Right." She shoved away from the support of the table, sure steps taking her exactly where she needed to go. 

The studio door groaned under the beating it was taking. Not much time left.

_"Harold, what are you--"_

"Instant cold packs are essentially potassium nitrate crystals plus a contained pouch of water," Harold lectured as he pushed one of the tables so it was aligned perpendicular to the door with the pottery-filled wooden drying racks next to it. "Potassium nitrate, plus copper oxide, plus sulfur, when mixed in the proper ratio creates--" 

_"Copper thermite."_

"A variation on flash powder. You know your chemistry," Harold acknowledged, snatching up the containers of chemicals he needed. 

John's glib response barely masked his concern. _"You know I like things that go 'boom'."_

Callie hurried back to his side with the items he'd requested. Harold pulled the foil from its box and unrolled it across the table. He stabbed holes in the cold packs with one of Callie's pointed modeling tools, shaking the dried crystals in a line the length of the foil. Powdered copper and sulfur were quickly added to the mix.

"Bear, _Hier._ " The Malinois had been edging toward the door, ready to take on whoever entered, but he returned to Harold's side immediately. Harold guided Callie's fingers to latch onto the dog's collar. 

"Turn off the lights and wait by the rear door."

She shook her head in protest. "Harold--"

The studio door took another hit. The lock finally gave with a horrific snap and the panel popped inward a few inches, stopped short of fully opening by the heavy bags propped against it.

Harold waved an arm toward the divider curtain. "Bear, _Vooruit._ " The Malinois lunged toward the firing area, pulling Callie with him. Harold took a step back from the table and lit the propane torch, quickly dialing it down to a narrow blue flame.

Such a pitiful weapon against an armed killer. He swallowed hard.

"John--"

His partner was obviously determined not to hear a last good-bye. _"Buy me three more minutes, Harold,"_ John ordered. _"Just three more minutes."_

Harold barely had time to drag in a breath before the door into the studio was shoved all the way open. Crawford stood framed in the doorway. He wasn't a big man, but the wicked looking rifle he held more than compensated for his lack of stature. He strode toward Harold who stood in plain sight, the table the only barrier between them. The killer's furious glare practically scorched as it swept by him, scanning the room. 

"Where's the girl?" Crawford snarled, lifting the rifle to point directly at Harold.

"Mr. Reynolds is already in police custody," he replied, playing for time. "You'd do well to--"

The lights went out, pitching the room into near-total blackness. Harold ducked, barely avoiding the bullet that whizzed by him. He popped up just enough to touch the lit end of the torch to the chemicals, then tucked himself into as small a target under the table as his stiff spine would allow. 

The mixed powders burst into flame in a nova of brilliant bright light, accompanied by a loud bang and a shower of molten copper as the force of the flame-triggered chemical reaction sent searing droplets spraying in all directions. Crawford's shocked scream of agony, underscored by stumbling footsteps, sent Harold into motion. He grabbed the edge of the table and pulled himself to his feet. The killer was a shadowed demon, clawing at his face, screaming obscenities. 

He still held the rifle. 

Harold planted his hands against the wooden drying shelves and shoved. The heavily laden shelving wavered, then tipped. The unfired pottery crashed to the floor, shattering into sharp shards that bounced off the concrete floor like missiles. Harold gave the shelves another push. They toppled, taking Crawford to the floor amidst the sharp sounds of snapping wood and more outraged curses. 

Harold lurched toward the heavy curtain divider, losing precious seconds as he fumbled along its length. Wood scraped and thudded against concrete--Crawford unearthing himself from the pile. As Harold rounded the end of the curtain, there was just enough of the glow of the City beaming through the high windows to pick out Callie and the Malinois near the door. 

"Bear--"

The command to attack and protect never made it past Harold's lips. The Malinois leaped forward, breaking free of Callie's grasp and streaking past his master. Bear's snarls merged with Crawford's savage grunts. Harold limped toward their Number who was already entering the code to open the rear door. The deadbolt disengaged, but the panel refused to open more than a few inches. Their own delaying tactic had been used against them. Their only way out was blocked. 

Bear's snarls suddenly became a yip of pain and less than a heartbeat later, the roar of a gunshot boomed. Harold crowded Callie back against the wall. He could feel her fingers like claws in his arms, the pounding of her heart against his spine. 

Footsteps. Coming closer.

The end of the curtain moved.

A tall figure, backlit by the fading glow of the nearly extinguished flash powder stepped around the end. Harold's breath left him in a rush of relief. Drenched in shadow, Reese looked like a grim Angel of Death, but Harold had never seen a more welcome sight, and his partner's voice was music to his ears. "You two all right?"

"Yes." He patted the hand Callie had locked around his arm, felt her relieved shudder. "Is--"

A four-footed shape slipped past John. Bear trotted to Harold, nuzzling his hand with a cold nose before nudging his head against his leg. Harold stepped aside and the dog leaned against Callie.

"Bear?" She dropped to one knee and threw her arms around him, her welcome half-laugh and half-sob. "He's all right?

John holstered his Sig and crossed the room to join them, keen eyes flicking between Harold and their Number. "He's fine. Crawford caught him with the tip of a knife. Surprised him, but he won't even need stitches."

"So it's over?" she asked tremulously.

"It's over. The men responsible for your friend's death are going away for a long time, Callie."

"Thank you," she murmured, burying her face in Bear's soft fur. 

Reese locked gazes with Harold and reached out to brush his fingers across his partner's shoulder, as though he were flicking off a stray piece of lint. If John's touch lingered longer than necessary, and his eyes grew soft, only Harold was witness to it.

The overhead lights flickered on. Harold quirked an eyebrow at the static-crackle of radios, the shuffle of feet and low voices from the other side of the curtain. 

"Backup?" Harold asked drolly, eyeing his partner over the top rim of his glasses. "That's rather unlike you."

Reese shrugged. "Rental cops and uniforms responding to the alarms and reports of someone shooting up the neighborhood. "I'll let them argue over who gets the collar. And who gets to cart Crawford to the hospital." His lips curved in a small smile. "My end of the paperwork will be simple. I only have to explain firing a single, non-fatal shot. _You_ made a mess of Callie's studio." 

Harold grimaced. "I suppose it's time for a strategic retreat."

Reese glanced over his shoulder. "Give me a few minutes to get that crowd focused and the rear door cleared. I'll grab your laptop and a few things for Callie." 

Their Number raised her head. "Things?"

"The department will set you up with a hotel for a few days," he explained. "Just until we can get the damage repaired."

She winced. "Did you break _all_ the pots that were on the drying rack, Harold?"

"I'm afraid-"

She rose to her feet. "Can I kick him?" 

"Miss Edwards--"

"Not you, Harold." She reached out to grip his arm gently. "Crawford. One of the pieces on the rack was the commission for MoMA. He owes me some satisfaction for ruining three days of work."

*******************

Author's note: That takes us to the end of the 'case-fic'. The final chapter-- coming soon--will be much more RINCH specific, so if that is not your cup of tea, you've reached the end. 

thanks!


	12. Chapter 12

*******************

_your hand_  
_touching mine._

_this is how_  
_galaxies_  
_collide._

*******************

 

_Three weeks later..._

 

Harold pushed the buzzer next to their ex-Number's front door, the muted ringing of the chime echoing behind the closed panel. After a few minutes, Callie opened the door. She wore a glaze and clay speckled apron, suggesting she'd been working. 

"Miss Edwards. You're looking well."

"Come on in, Harold. You're right on time."

"John relayed your message," he said, stepping inside. "Something about needing my assistance?"

"Yep. Follow me." 

The studio had been set to rights, incorporating some minor changes. The shelves of cleaning supplies had been moved to a new location, replaced by a row of hooks mounted along the wall near the sink, with aprons hanging from each. New wooden drying shelves bracketed a small seating area of comfortable but practical vinyl-covered chairs. There were more tables, set lower to the floor, with short stools tucked up next to them. 

Callie grabbed a bundle of fabric off one table and tossed it in his direction. He barely snagged it before it hit the floor. "You'll need that."

He shook out the wadded-up cloth, staring in offended horror at the mud splattered bib apron dangling from his fingertips. "Miss Edwards--"

"You're the one that suggested I step out into the world, Harold."

"Yes, but--"

Suddenly she was in front of him, patting at his arm, tugging lightly at the knot of his tie. "Suit coat, shirt, tie, off, Harold. This isn't a job for business attire." 

"Exactly what kind of 'job' did you have in mind, Miss Edwards?"

She took a step back, practically bouncing on her toes in excitement. "Vincent Grant's company was awarded the bid for the redevelopment."

He nodded. "Yes, I've been following the news."

"They kept the original plans, but they're also going to add a community center. They're going to name it after Marie."

"That sounds very fitting." 

Her fingers fluttered in nervous excitement. "I'm going to teach a class," she blurted out. "To kids. And maybe some adults. I don't have it all planned out yet, but I thought I'd start with some hand-built stuff, and maybe some basic wheel throwing for the ones that are more adventurous. We'll work out of here until the center's ready."

He smiled, delighted with the turn of events. "That's excellent." 

"I've never taught, before, Harold," she whined plaintively. "I need to practice."

Her intent was suddenly clear. "I don't think--" He took a step backward, but she snagged his arm and pulled him toward the wheels. "Miss Edwards, I'm not--"

"Artistically inclined. I remember. That's why you're the perfect subject. If I can teach you, I can teach anybody." 

Playing in the mud was unappealing at best, but he couldn't bring himself to dampen her enthusiasm. "Very well," he agreed reluctantly. He began removing the layers of clothing she had requested until he was down to his t-shirt and slacks, the apron tied into place.

She set him up at one of the throwing wheels, seated to the front edge of a high swivel stool with his legs spread so his inner thighs embraced the round trough of the wheel. The position put a strain on his hip. He knew he wouldn't be able to maintain it for long. 

Plunking a large lump of clay on the center of the wheel, she seated herself on another stool directly across from him.

"This is an electric wheel," she explained, tapping a lever at the base with her foot. "You don't have to worry about keeping it going. You can just concentrate on what your hands are doing. Tuck your elbows in against your body and rest your forearms on your upper thighs."

"What is it I'm to attempt to construct, Miss Edwards?" he asked dubiously as the top plate started to spin clockwise.

She guided his hands into position. "Just a pot, Harold. Something simple so you can get a feel for the clay and how to use your fingers to shape it." She reached over to a bucket placed next to the wheel and drizzled a scant handful of water over the spinning mass.

He quickly became speckled with liquified clay from his fingertips to the middle of his forearms. The cold slimy substance under his fingers wasn't as squishy as the human heart he'd once held, but he shuddered just the same. 

Despite his squeamishness, he was intrigued by the process; her calm voice, and sure hands resting atop his, leading him through the initial centering stages--guiding the clay with one hand while pushing down flat with the palm of the other hand, then shifting positions to pull the clay upward into a cone. The pressure and contortions required made the muscles in his upper back and shoulders ache almost immediately.

"Keep your hands still as you create the hole in the center," she warned. "Otherwise the pot will end up off balance even if the outer dimensions look okay." Her hands deftly positioned his. "Press down with the thumb and fingers of one hand, using your other hand to stabilize them. Go almost all the way down, but don't push through the bottom." She readjusted his hands. "Use both hands to guide the clay outward from the center of the hole."

She shifted his grasp again. "The left hand does the work of pulling up the wall of the pot. Right hand guides the work. Your fingers go inside, the thumb rests on the outside. Lock your right hand around your left from above. That'll keep your left thumb steady."

Harold could feel the strain in his back as he leaned in, feeling incredibly clumsy and uncoordinated as he tried to follow her precise instructions. To his surprise, the pot almost immediately began to take shape under their fingers.

His mental congratulations were interrupted by the chime of the front door bell.

"Now you see why that voice activation for the security system came in handy," she remarked with a grin.

She pulled her hands away. He started to do the same, but she immediately pressed her hands back onto his, keeping them on the clay. 

"No. Keep going. I'll get it."

She dunked her hands in the bucket of water, grabbed a rag and hurried off. 

He managed fine for a few minutes, but without her guidance, the spinning clay seemed to have a will of his own, the walls of the pot rising faster than he'd intended. Keeping an even pressure wasn't as easy as it had seemed, either. The pot wobbled and he almost overcompensated to keep it from collapsing. 

"Miss Edwards, I believe I'm in need your assistance," he called out.

There was no answer. He frowned and tried to twist a little to look back over his shoulder toward the studio door, but the clay started to shift under his hands and he spent a frantic few minutes trying to coax it back into the correct position. 

He glared at the pot as the too thin rim started to ripple into lazy waves. 

Someone settled behind him on the stool. The scarred knuckles on the big hands that locked on his waist were as familiar and beloved as the velvet rasp that tickled his ear.

"Steady." 

Strong jean-clad thighs aligned with his; a well-muscled torso pressed close in support.

"Nice even pressure. Guide it with your fingers, press with your thumb." 

"I don't remember 'potter' being listed as a profession on your extensive resume," Harold muttered as the pot slowly regained its correct shape. "How is it you actually seem to know what you're doing?"

His partner chuckled. "You're not the only one Callie's roped into helping with her schemes." Reese shifted behind him, tucking himself in even closer, long arms sliding under Harold's to wrap snugly round his waist. John's voice dropped even lower, into the seductive tones that always made Harold shiver. "Although I'm liking the direction _this_ one is going."

Harold realized Reese had stripped down even farther than he had. He could feel the heat of John's bare skin through his thin cotton t-shirt; the nudge of his partner's eager erection through worn denim. Harold felt his own cock stir.

All of the sudden it occurred to him how they must look--like lovers embracing. If she walked in on them now, even Callie would be able to detect the heat rising between them. 

"John--"

"Relax, Harold. We're alone." John's stubbled cheek rubbed against his. "I tucked Callie into a cab and locked up behind her."

"Why--"

"She's on her way to the airport. Her flight for Wisconsin leaves in a couple of hours."

"But--"

"She's visiting her parents for a couple days, then meeting the new man in her life."

"New--"

"His name is Devlin."

_"Mr. Reese."_

John ignored his annoyed, demanding tone. "Big brown eyes, gold silky hair. Two years old, but he's still got some growing to do, based on the size of his feet in the picture she showed me."

"Two--" Harold sucked in a surprised breath as his partner's teasing clues suddenly made sense. 

"Bear will have a new playmate when she gets back. He does have a fondness for Golden Retrievers." Reese rested his chin on Harold's shoulder. "Devlin just got his certification as a Guide dog. I don't think it'll take long before they're a solid team." 

"She found her answer," Harold murmured. 

John hummed a low agreement. "By the time the art world learns the truth about 'Calista', Callie will have a partner she can rely on, and a solid support group with the community here. She's going to be fine." 

Harold shivered as John placed a line of kisses down his neck. Since the night they had saved her life, his contact with Callie had been limited to a few phone calls. Their conversations had primarily revolved around Bear's health, and updates on her involvement in the case against Reynolds and Crawford. After ten minutes in the 'box' with Detective Riley, Crawford had given up enough details that it appeared Callie wouldn't even have to testify at the trials. The only questions she had really asked, were in regard to finding a contractor to handle the repairs to her apartment and studio. Harold had thoroughly vetted a short list and sent it off to her.

"Was it Miss Edwards' idea or yours to put me in this--" he glared at his mud coated hands and forearms, "--compromising position."

"I did catch a comment about 'payback'," John teased. "She's a devious romantic, Finch. Saying 'thank you' by giving us some time together. We're house-sitting for a couple days."

Harold frowned. "Are you sure that's wise?"

"Whistler doesn't have to work the weekend, and neither does Detective Riley. The frig is stocked, and I brought some clothes, _and_ the supplies." He nudged his hips forward, blatantly conveying what kind of 'supplies' he was referring to. "We don't have to step a foot outside the door, and Callie said you've got permission to browse through her vinyl collection." 

Harold was suddenly aware there was music playing, filtering into the studio from the apartment. Mozart's, _Adagio in C Minor,_ if he wasn't mistaken. 

"Hmmm..." The prospect was deliciously tempting. He hadn't brought his laptop, but he could use Callie's system to keep tabs on the world. And the Machine had proven it could find them anywhere, should a new Number pop up.

"While they were here, she had the contractors do more than just fix the damage Crawford caused. Her new shower's big enough for two," John murmured suggestively.

"Bear?"

"Fusco's minding him."

"The two of you appear to have arranged things admirably." Harold glared down at the clay spinning slowly between his hands. "Which is more than I can say for my attempt at artistry."

John stopped nuzzling the soft skin under his ear and glanced over his shoulder, snorting softly at the misshapen pot.

"It's not for lack of trying," Harold groused. "I understand the mechanics. I just...I don't have the strength or flexibility," he admitted with a resigned sigh. 

John shifted on the stool until his body bracketed Harold's securely. His big, capable hands covered Harold's, pressing in and down to collapse the clay into a solid mass.

"Close your eyes," Reese urged. "Just feel...lead the way like you always do. Let me do the heavy lifting."

Harold took a deep breath and relaxed into John's embrace. With his partner's strength supporting his efforts, he concentrated on the feel of the clay under his fingers. Haltingly at first, and then with more confidence, their combined efforts guided it into shape. 

"Look," John whispered, easing Harold's hands away from the clay. 

Harold opened his eyes. The pot spinning on the platform wouldn't win any awards, but it looked balanced and sturdy. If he was a betting man, he would wager on the likelihood of it withstanding the horrific stress of the firing process.

Not something he could have accomplished on his own. 

A metaphor, indeed.

He twisted enough to place a grateful kiss on John's lips. "Thank you." 

Reese quirked an eyebrow. 

"For accepting the job," Harold murmured. 

John grinned, his eyes lighting with warmth at the reference. He slid off the stool, spinning it counterclockwise until they were face to face. He laced their muddy fingers together, tugged Harold to his feet, and leaned in to deliver a kiss that left no doubt as to _his_ satisfaction with their partnership. 

When they parted, both somewhat breathless, Reese released one of Harold's hands and dropped a damp cloth over the pot. "Ready for some more 'tactile' exercises?"

"We should clean up first." Harold circled a finger around one of John's nipples, leaving a slimy trail of gray against burnished skin. "You're in dire need of a shower, Mr. Reese." He glanced up to meet his partner's startled gaze, assuming his most innocent expression. "Perhaps I could assist. Make sure you don't miss any spots."

John flashed him a lecherous smile and towed him toward the apartment. 

*********************

The new shower _was_ large enough for two.

*********************

And so was the queen-sized bed.

*********************

A different kind of hunger prompted them to investigate the kitchen several hours later. A familiar shipping box sat on the counter, with a typed note attached, addressed to Harold, which read cryptically, _"I found a use for the feathers."_

John shot Harold a quizzical look. "You didn't--"

"Give her one of my ornithologically-inspired last names? No." Harold started to fold back the flaps on the box. "The reference to the feathers is--"

The contents stole both speech and breath. With trembling hands he carefully lifted a raku teapot out of the box. It was clearly one of Callie's creations, the curved surface covered with an abstract pattern of lines and swirling colors that suggested feathers ruffling in the wind.

John reached into the box and pulled out two more items--tea bowls carved and glazed in the same striking pattern, one slightly smaller than the other. A bright feather and a strip of paper with a typed line of Japanese characters was curled inside each.

Harold set the tea pot on the counter and accepted the smaller bowl with reverence. It fit perfectly in his hands and he knew the other would fit John's hands just as precisely. He unrolled the narrow paper and felt the swamp of emotions as he translated the message.

Reese touched his arm. 

Harold cleared his throat softly. "My Japanese is a little rusty, but this one says, _"Make new memories."_

John nodded, his eyes soft with understanding, and handed him the strip of paper from the second bowl. A chuckle escaped Harold as he silently translated the second message: 塊のための

"What?" Reese prodded.

"This one's definitely for you," Harold replied, trying to keep a straight face. He handed the paper back to his partner. "Just something Callie mentioned. If you think back to one of the conversations you undoubtedly overheard while you were out grilling those developers, I'm sure you'll figure it out."

John scowled at him. _"Harold."_

Unintimidated, Harold leaned against the counter and swept his gaze over his partner from head to foot. 

Slowly. 

Appreciatively. 

He moved into John's space, rose up on his toes a little and murmured into his partner's ear--

\--which turned an _interesting_ shade of bright red. 

*********************************

-30-

Final notes: 

If you're wondering--and I'm sure some of you are--John's note from Callie translates to (according to Google translator): "For the Hunk"

 

******************  
Acknowledgements:

Characters, dialogue, etc., from various POI episodes. No copyright infringement intended. 

Title reference and a bit of background on Raku pottery: http://www.veniceclayartists.com/the-raku-pottery-technique/

“We scarcely know how much of our pleasure and interest in life comes to us through our eyes until we have to do without them; and part of that pleasure is that the eyes can choose where to look. But the ears can't choose where to listen.” --Ursula K. Le Guin, _Gifts_

“I am a forest, and a night of dark trees: but he who is not afraid of my darkness, will find banks full of roses under my cypresses.” -- Friedrich Nietzsche, _Thus Spoke Zarathustra_

“Sometimes, reaching out and taking someone's hand is the beginning of a journey. At other times, it is allowing another to take yours.” -- Vera Nazarian, _The Perpetual Calendar of Inspiration_

http://www.livinglanguage.com/blog/2013/06/20/how-to-say-thank-you-in-japanese-the-9-expressions-you-need/

“At the temple there is a poem called "Loss" carved into the stone. It has three words, but the poet has scratched them out. You cannot read loss, only feel it.” -- Arthur Golden, _Memoirs of a Geisha_

The small wheel 'Callie' uses for hand-forming in Chapter 4 is called a 'banding wheel'. You can see a picture of them here: http://www.clay-king.com/turntables.htm

“There are many degrees of sight and many degrees of blindness. What senses do we lack that we cannot see another world all around us?” -- Frank Herbert

“Memories establish the past;  
Senses perceive the present;  
Imaginations shape the future.” -- Toba Beta, _My Ancestor Was an Ancient Astronaut_

“The painter has the Universe in his mind and hands.” -- Leonardo da Vinci

“So the unwanting soul sees what's hidden,  
and the ever-wanting soul sees only what it wants.” -- Lao Tzu

“When I lost my sight, Werner, people said I was brave. When my father left, people said I was brave. But it is not bravery; I have no choice. I wake up and live my life. Don't you do the same?” --Anthony Doerr, _All the Light We Cannot See_

The harp music Harold finds so amazing is from the opening of "Healing and Relaxing Music for Meditation (Harp 09) by Pablo Arellano. It can be found here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tiye0BqxJS4 

The Mozart pieces can be found here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gTEn6SRVAE4

“Love has a sound, if you know what to listen for. It sounds like silence, surrounded by blindness. It’s the Helen Keller of emotions, at least for me.” -- Jarod Kintz, _This Book is Not FOR SALE_

“Gold conjures up a mist about a man, more destructive of all his old senses and lulling to his feelings than the fumes of charcoal.” --Charles Dickens, _Nicholas Nickleby_

“Touch comes before sight, before speech. It is the first language and the last, and it always tells the truth.” --Margaret Atwood, _Der blinde Moerder_

“What makes night within us may leave stars.” --Victor Hugo, _Ninety-Three_

“your hand  
touching mine.  
this is how  
galaxies  
collide.”  
― Sanober Khan


End file.
